


Confessional

by g33kg1rl



Category: TMNT - AU, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types, Western - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cowboys, Gay Bashing, Guns, M/M, Priest!Donatello, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Slow Burn, Torture, Triggery situations concerning prejudice and bigotry, Turtlecest, extreme violence, implied rape, sex trade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 65,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g33kg1rl/pseuds/g33kg1rl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He rode into town on Thursday; all quiet and dark with eyes blistering like the noonday hour and just as golden. The sun dipped toward the edge of the mountains, casting a lengthy shadow of grasping fingers across the dry landscape, and Donatello stood still, watching him ride by. A stranger in these parts wasn't rare, but his kind was. With a six shooter at his hip, a rifle in the saddle, and a fair sized scar across the side of his beak, proving he had earned his place in this God forsaken west, he was a desperado if he ever did see one. </p><p>RaphXDon, turtlecest, gunfights, religious views, emotional turmoil, blood, hard living, tragedy and death, and Wild West Turtles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thursday

Chapter 1

~~~~~*~~~~~

Thursday

 

He rode into town on Thursday; all quiet and dark with eyes blistering like the noonday hour and just as golden. The sun dipped toward the edge of the mountains, casting a lengthy shadow of grasping fingers across the dry landscape, and Donatello stood still, watching him ride by. A stranger in these parts wasn't rare, but his kind was. With a six shooter at his hip, a rifle in the saddle, and a fair sized scar across the side of his beak, proving he had earned his place in this God forsaken west, he was a desperado if he ever did see one. 

Tipping his head back and reining his horse to a stop, he man glared at Donatello. The stranger raised a brow and flicked his gaze across Donatello’s body, pausing momentarily on the white collar at his throat. He smirked, a glimmer bringing his golden eyes to life.

Donatello schooled his features, unwilling to allow this turtle to fluster his nerves from one smoldering look alone.

"Padre." The stranger husked, deep and gravely that sent a shiver up his spine. He nodded to Donatello, nudging his horse forward and the beast snorted in protest, slapping his tail against his flank and shuffled through the raw earth, kicking up little puffs of dust that scattered with the wind.

Donatello nodded back respectfully, but he gave no smile and instead folded his arms over his chest and watched the turtle rein his horse in at the local saloon and march inside on bowed legs.

Darkness hovered about the stranger as heavily as a shroud covered the dead. His arrival was only the prelude to something greater – for ill or good. Donatello knew deep down in his gut it was the former. Nothing good was going to come with this stranger’s arrival.

"Father!" Sheriff Casey Jones waved to him before he jogged to his side, his dark hair tied back neatly under his hat, a hand resting upon his gun's grip. "Father," Casey grinned lopsided and turned, jerking his chin toward the saloon. "So what's yer take on that?"

Flashing his friend a smile, Donatello shrugged and draped his hands over his hips. "I'm thinking his horse needs a shoe." Casey rolled his eyes and Donatello held in a laugh by simply smiling at the man.

"You always say that."

"Maybe I'll be right today."

The glare Casey gave him spoke loud and clear at his annoyance. Don was usually right. "Anyway," With a huff and his finger tapping on his gun, Casey eyed him back, "so, this stranger,"

The priest sighed, shrugging his shoulders and looked back toward the saloon. "Perhaps he is an answer to my prayers." He grinned, "I do need help patching up the church."

A frown marred the sheriff's face as he shook his head. "I don't like the looks of him. Nothing but a fox in a henhouse if you ask me."

Donatello chuckled, bobbing his head in agreement. "That there is trouble if I ever did see some."

"How about one of the town Sheriffs and the local pastor go and welcome the new arrival and...explain we want no trouble." A heavy hand landed on Donatello's shoulder and he smiled at his old friend.

"I believe that would be a splendid idea." He patted Casey's arm.

Together, they crossed the dusty street, Casey waving down the folk staring worriedly toward the saloon. The last pounding rays of the sun, hot and imposing upon Donatello's back as though pushing him forward, promising with every step that if he walked in there, nothing would be the same for him again. The pair stepped inside, the squeaky hinges of the old saloon announcing their arrival and banging against one another as they swung back in place.

The dark wood of the saloon welcomed him, the room smoky and thick on the tongue. The tables lingered close together, cards shuffled hands, coins and laughter, drinks sloshing and the candles flickered from the ornate gold chandelier in the center of the building. The candles illuminated the second floor where red velvet curtains fluttered and hid the soiled doves gazing down from their perches, waiting for lonely clients to begin their night’s work. 

Mikey, glanced over his shoulder and grinned, blue eyes twinkling in delight as he waved a greeting and threw the bar towel over his shoulder all in the same motion. He leaned forward and slumped atop the bar counter, waiting for them to approach. Donatello adored Michelangelo, he had grown up with him and the barman was forever a roaring fountain of ideas and optimistic enthusiasm.

Donatello smiled and inclined his head to his childhood friend, and Mike winked back with a subtle tilt of his head, motioning toward the card table where the stranger sat with Angel on his lap. The girl, already fussing over the newcomer, whispered seductively in his ear. At least, Donatello assumed such by the way the stranger smirked at something she had said in particular and slapped her rump playfully in response. She giggled and leaned in again to whisper something to him, and Donatello supposed he should attempt a sermon in the near future concerning the Godliness of virtue.

"Well well,” Michelangelo interrupted, drawing the priest’s attention back to the bar. “You managed to drag old Donnie in here! That deserves a drink on the house if I do say so myself!" Mikey laughed and turned, grabbing for the sarsaparilla and poured Casey a shot.

The Sheriff laughed, a deep belly laugh that put the entire saloon at ease instantly and the humming chatter began once again. "You, Mikey, are a true stand up fellow!" and he took the drink leaning sideways upon the counter, turning to look at the stranger.

Donatello smiled and waved his hands in front of himself, declining a drink even as Mikey teased him, pressuring him to try at least one glass. It had become a game of sorts between them, but in the end, Donatello took his glass of warm water and perched himself upon one of the wobbly barstools and regarded the stranger at the poker table. He was tall for a turtle, and strong with a black hat looped by a red bandana around the center. The way his worn leather riding gear hugged him and the hints of extended comfort in his clothing said it all –just as the silver gun on his heavy belt stated clearly to all those near him- he was a tough son-uv-a-bitch and he knew how to work the saddle just as he did his six shooter. He roughed it out on the prairies working cattle just as easily as he worked the card table and the whiskey bottle to his right.

Casey glanced Donatello’s way, raising a brow. Donatello simply smiled and shrugged his shoulder, taking a drink of his murky water and leaving the task of introductions up to the Sheriff. Grunting and rolling his eyes as though Casey truly thought him useless, he threw the rest of his drink in his mouth and swallowed hard.

"Perhaps a simple welcome would suffice?" Donatello tilted his head, looking past Casey and toward the stranger. He won his second hand and pulled the winnings toward himself, smirking at the attentions Angel gave him as she ran her fingers along his neck congratulatory.

"Don't rightly know what that means, but it should do well 'nough." Casey shrugged and smacked the glass down atop the bar and spun on his heel. "Seems we have a visitor!" he said and thumped his way through the smoky and too warm saloon to stand next to the stranger.

Angel's giggles simmered down till she finally whispered something to the stranger and slid off his lap, gathering her revealing skirts up all the higher and hurrying away. The turtle frowned heavily and tapped his cards on the table and tipped his head down, hiding his eyes from the Sheriff. Donatello could see the stranger from his vantage upon the stool and he stiffened as the stranger leaned forward, his elbows resting atop the table as he threw a half dollar into the pot. Bold; for a pair of six’s and miscellaneous cards. "Yeah? What about it?" He peeked up at Casey from under his black hat, the red bandana brought out his eyes, creating the illusion of fire and coals licking at the stranger’s soul.

Casey offered another smile and shifted back a step, his hand once again resting comfortably atop the handle of his gun. "'Nothin' about it, mister, just wanted ta know who the new fellow in town is. It's my job after all to know everybody in these here parts. Can't blame a Sheriff for being curious, now can ya?"

The stranger once again sat back and flicked his cards at the dealer; a clean and tidy barn owl with trimmed feathers; and Raphael announced he was out of this round while at the same time continuing to stare up at Casey with a raised brow and a strong set to his shoulders. "S'pose not." He gave a grunt and tipped his hat back finally, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. "Name's Raphael."

"Sheriff Casey Jones. You got a last name to go with that?" Casey asked, glancing toward Donatello with a little sway.

Raphael glared up at him, his eyes nothing but holy fire blazing within the dim lighting of the saloon as the setting sun flashed across his face. "You need one...Sheriff?"

Casey tipped his chin up, staring down his nose at Raphael, his nostrils flaring. Donatello took the thickening atmosphere as his cue to hop off the bar stool and join the two, He bowed his head to the stranger. "Sorry to interrupt,” he offered Raphael a smile as he held out his hand. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you are new in town. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. How long might you be staying?"

Raphael pulled his hat off suddenly, running a hand over his head and stared Donatello directly in the eye, a challenge glimmering there, and Donatello continued to smile. Yet annoyance punched Donatello in the gut and he refused to look away, daring Raphael to stand up and follow through with that challenge. He almost hoped he would, and Donatello refused to pull his hand away, because somehow, he had to win this moment that lay thick between them like his mama’s beans and pork they had every year on the first day of summer.

A smirk spread across Raphael’s face suddenly and he turned back to his game, setting his hat back atop his head and motioning for the dealer to deal him in as the jack rabbit across the table finished collecting his winnings. "Jus' passin' through Padre. Ain't plannin' on stayin' long."

"Then perhaps I'll see you for Sunday service before you set out once again." Donatello answered sharply and lifted his glass, taking a sip of the warm water that tasted like the well at the center of town.

Casey rapped his knuckles upon the table and nodded to Raphael, leaning a bit over Donatello's shoulder as he stared at him hard, "Pleasure ta meet you, mister, just would like ta ask ya to stay out of trouble now." He smiled then, a disarming grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. Raphael ignored him, placing another bet into the growing pot.

Angel walked by then, a bit slow and leisurely and she ran the tips of her fingers along Raphael's shoulders. Casey sighed and Angel immediately bristled and made a hiss in her throat, but that didn't stop Sheriff Jones from following behind her and cornering her as he talked to her, taking her by the elbow when she threatened to leave.

The stranger snorted, shaking his head and throwing another pair of dimes into the center. Donatello watched silently, hovering next to the man like the ghost of Christmas Past, lingering at his elbow and studying the tapping of his finger upon the edge of the cards. Raphael ignored him splendidly, placing his bets and pouring himself another shot of whiskey as he waited for the men around him to decide their strategy. Finally, the dealer called for their final bets and Raphael laid his cards out on the table. The dealer announced him the winner and he gathered the twenty five dollars in winnings. Donatello considered Raphael for a moment, watching the man stack the coins and bills before he took a seat as well at the table.

Raphael paused and stared at the priest as he was dealt in and offered a set of chips instead of money. The dealer cleared his throat, passing out the cards to the players. "The priest plays for free." He stared pointedly at Raphael.

"Fair enough." Raphael tapped his finger on the table, shifting in his seat and Donatello felt the man’s eyes boring a hole through his skull.

Donatello smiled, gathering his cards up and shuffling them about between his fingers a few times, changing his mind several times as to how they should be arranged in his hand. "I suppose you aren't the type of man looking for work, are you?"

"Nope." Raphael considered his cards and tossed a few nickels into the pot.

He nodded and tilted his head, thinking for a moment over his cards before he laid a blue and red chip into the pot. "What brings you to Brookside town then? If not for work, I mean. There really isn't much else out here."

"Jus' passin' through, Padre. Ain't nothin' more complicated than that." Raphael's voice steeled over and he glanced toward Donatello, his shoulders stiff. "I ain't doin' one of them confessional things."

Donatello again tilted his head at his cards, his brows knitting together in confusion before he took a card out of his hand and slid it across the table to the dealer.

"Ah, no, Father, once you have made your bet, you cannot change cards until the next game." The dealer whispered; and the older jackrabbit with a hole in his ear smirked, shaking his head at the priest before he threw a few dollars into the pot. The mutt next to him doing the same with a scowl on his face.

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry." Donatello put the card back into his hand, peeking from the corner of his eye as Raphael watched him closely, and he tried hard not to smile.

He turned back to Raphael and the stranger jerked his eyes back to his cards, tipping his hat back up his brow. "Hmm?"

"Ain't said nothin', Padre."

"Awe, I suppose not. You haven't answered my question either."

Raphael sighed and laid his hand down to turn toward Donatello, annoyance written into every feature on his face; and despite the thick cloud that practically vibrated the darkness that lingered next to this stranger, Donatello couldn't help but find him very pleasing to gaze at. Very handsome for a wandering gunslinger.

"Are ya goin' ta pester me till I say somethin'?"

"More than likely, yes." Donatello offered another bet as the dealer made the final call. Raphael practically threw an entire five dollars into the pot after Donatello's simple ten cent bet.

"My horse has a loose shoe. That satisfy yer naggin' ass?" he glared and laid his cards out, staring directly at Donatello and waiting, his brow twitching.

The dealer cleared his throat, shooting Raphael a warning look for language around the priest. But Donatello ignored it and looked instead at Raphael's cards, his brows rising up in surprise.

"Two tens and three Jacks are very good. Correct, Victor?" The dealer nodded and Donatello sighed, looking at his cards again. The other two players had already thrown their hands down, though neither looked as though they had hoped to win anyhow. Donatello frowned and laid his hand out. "I only have hearts."

Raphael snorted and leaned back in his chair, eyes hard and narrowed upon Donatello as he spread out his hand. All of them were indeed hearts, a straight run from six to the Jack of hearts.

"Father wins." Dealer chuckled and pushed the winnings toward the priest.

Donatello blinked in surprise and then smiled and bowed his head, his cheeks warming, "Awe, God's Will I suppose. I was worried I would not be able to get the roof of the church patched up before winter." He stood then gathering up the money and smoothing the bills out in his hand till he folded them and placed them in his pocket. "Thank you gentlemen."

"Wait, ya can't just win a hand and walk out!" Raphael objected, glancing to the other men at the table. The jack rabbit shook his head, waving his hand dismissively and looking away, and the old dog with the drooping eyes shrugged.

"He never loses." the dog said and Donatello grinned sheepishly.

He lifted his glass and gave the men a salute. "Thank you again, gentlemen. And Mister Raphael, if you wish to get your horse's shoe shod, I suggest the blacksmith at the end of the road. Mr. Malone is possibly the best in the whole county." he took a moment to study Raphael and the stranger stared right back, tapping his finger once again upon the table that Donatello was beginning to understand as a tick he possessed when he was angry about something. "And do come to confession on Sunday. It does the soul little ill to do so."

"No offense, Padre, but stop ridin' my ass." Raphael grunted and finally turned away. Donatello chuckled and the dealer hissed at him again, but with a little wave, Donatello turned and walked away, rolling up the sleeves of his priest shirt. He glanced back at the stranger, watching him continuing to shake his head and he felt a twinge of pleasure rise up in his chest. It was satisfying somehow to have unsettled the turtle so much.

"You playin' nice there, Donnie?" Mikey asked, taking the empty glass of water from him. He waggled his brows at Donatello and the priest felt a blush color his cheeks.

"Perhaps not. But Sheriff Jones and I wanted to be certain that Raphael would not be causing any trouble.

Michelangelo nodded, raising a brow with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "Uh-huh." He struck a match and lit an oil lamp, preparing for the evening now that the sun had sunk below the mountains and night crept in. "Raphael, right."

Not even bothering to answer him because he wasn’t sure his embarrassment wouldn’t reveal itself in the form of a squeaky voice, Donatello waved to his friend, wishing the turtle well. Stepping out into the chill night air, Donatello walked down the abandoned main road and to his church, a smile rising over his face as he felt the money in his pocket. Perhaps it wasn't saintly to cheat gamblers out of their money, but he supposed God would understand; after all, his house did need a new roof. Donatello knew for a fact it wouldn't survive another heavy winter like the one last year. It was a shame really that the stranger wasn't looking for work. He would have been pleased to give him a job, not to mention having a helping hand about the church to aid him in various jobs that needed more than one pair of hands would have been convenient.

Donatello stepped into the church and going through his nightly rituals of securing the property before he locked the doors and crossed the street to his lodgings above the stable and forge at the end of town. He prepared for bed, his belly twisting as he considered his prayers for the evening. He knelt at his bedside for a long time, wondering how he was to pray, knowing full well he was going to sin yet again by dawns light tomorrow without even attempting to stop himself. He supposed complete honesty was all God really asked of his children and he sighed, bowing his head and resting his brow atop his entwined fingers.

"God in Heaven, I thank thee for your hand in all that you bless your servant with; mainly for providing me a way with repairing your home.” He paused and winced, inhaling deeply and resolving himself to his path, he continued. “I cannot in good conscience ask for your forgiveness; but perhaps I might ask for your understanding until the stranger, Raphael, leaves town. He is a very handsome man, and it has been many, many years since I have allowed myself to venture into simple indulgences that are rather pleasing to the eyes. I remain your faithful servant, and ask for your patience concerning my unnatural attraction." Donatello opened his mouth but nothing came out, his heart hammering in his chest, his lip trembling slightly before he smiled and he tilted his head, shifting on the hard wood floor against his knees. "But, Lord, you tempt me so; parading a man like that before me! Amen."

He had known since he was a teenage boy that he was attracted to the male figure. Donatello hadn't fussed over such things though, he had simply accepted it and gone about his life. He joined the priesthood out of genuine desire to serve God – though, the vow of celibacy hadn't hurt to reinforce his self-restraint either. Crawling under his rough and old blankets, Donatello hid his face behind his arm as though hoping for just a fleeting moment he would be able to block his thoughts from God and allow himself to enjoy a short lived fantasy that involved piercing golden eyes and strong fingers that tapped against his plastron insistently.


	2. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donatello hissed right back and pushed into his space, his nose brushing across Raphael’s and he gained a step back from the stranger. “You don’t understand. He killed ten good men! I had to comfort their widows and children even as I laid them to rest. Sheriff Jones was the only one who got out alive from that hellish gunfight and he still can’t find a way onto that farm. That man even has guards out at night patrolling the hills with dogs sniffing for intruders. We’re going to need more than you to get rid of this criminal.”

Chapter 2

~~~~~*~~~~~

Friday

 

 

The knock came to his door late in the morning, long after the school bell had rung and the farmers had driven in with their goods. Donatello set his coffee down, sloshing the contents over the lip of the mug. Standing with plate in hand, he scraped the last of his late breakfast into his mouth, dumped plate and fork into the wash bin, and headed for the door.

Though the glass was frosted and warped with age, he could still make out the broad shoulders and stiff stance of the man behind it. His heart jumped and he swallowed, sending a little prayer heavenward before he opened the door to a dipped black hat hiding the face of the handsome stranger from the day before.

Donatello straightened, pushed his shoulders back and he smiled a charming smile that grew into a playful thing the longer that Raphael stared blankly back with a slightly opened mouth. “’Mornin’ Mr. Raphael; what brings you to my door?” he asked and crossed his arms, leaning against the doorjamb. The lack of his priestly collar at his throat and the opened revelation of his neck and collarbones was something he wasn’t familiar with around others, but the bob of the stranger’s throat and the way his eyes glanced at the open neckline, Donatello basked in the attention – even if Raphael's intentions were far from what he truly desired, he still saw him look.

“Ah, Padre.” Raphael forced out, bowing his head to him, then he yanked his hat off. “I thought this here were Mr. Malone’s place. Ya said the blacksmith was the last place on the street.”

Donatello grinned, nodding with a little shrug to his left shoulder. “That I did.” He offered his hand, “I’m Malone. Mr. Donatello Malone at your service.” Raphael took his hand hesitantly, eyeing him suspiciously from under the brim of his hat.

“Not everyday ya meet a blacksmithin’ priest.”

He chuckled and stepped aside, allowing Raphael to enter his home that resemled a barn that had been modified into a living space. Donatello led Raphael through a secondary door and into his work area. Wood and charcoal dominated the aroma of the ground floor, with horse filling the rest with iron a close third. Regardless, it was home. He had grown up here, apprenticing with his father, learning from him, exploring new techniques with encouragement. Donatello never could think of a better place to have grown up. He supposed even the fresh scent of the church couldn’t compete with hard work at the forge. “This way. Sorry the doors aren’t open. I had a late start this morning.” He turned quickly, hiding the blush coloring along his cheeks. Dreams were still a sin if one had inappropriate ones. “You mentioned your horse threw a shoe?”

“Just loose. Been cloppin’ along just fine; no nail or nothin’.” Raphael said, and Donatello felt his eyes on his back as he pushed open the barn doors, opening his shop up for the day. “Now wait here; why would a priest be workin’ as a smithy?”

Donatello shrugged his shoulder and slipped his worn leather apron over his head, wrapping the laces around his middle twice before tying it in front. “Well, I like doing it. This shop has been in my family since my grandfather settled here, and my daddy learned every trick he could about the trade. He taught it to me and… and I suppose I love creating things out of a seemingly immovable object.” He tilted his head and Raphael grunted, glancing down at the dirt floor of his workshop.

The man didn’t reply and instead turned away, walking out through the barn doors to retrieve his horse and Donatello watched as he pulled his leather work gloves on. Raphael stroked his horse’s neck, grumbling something to the gelding and gently led him into the barn. Donatello motioned toward the stall he should put the beast in, and Raphael did as directed, unsaddling his horse and tying the reins to the posts on either side to hold the horse steady. “Suppose that there is a good enough reason.”

Validation swelled in Donatello’s chest and he shrugged, turning away to gather his box of horse shoes.  “Thank you.” His voice dipped low, peeking at the man a third time. He shook his head whispering a prayer to God to keep his will strong. Donatello gentled his hand upon the horse, running his hands along his strong flanks and down his long legs, easing the horse’s hooves off the ground one at a time, inspecting each hoof and testing each shoe before setting to work. He pulled the gelding’s rear right leg between his knees, locking it in place with his own, and began prying off the loose shoe, dropping the old and bent nails into a bucket on his left.

“It’ll take me a few hours. I don’t suppose you’ll be at the saloon waiting?” he raised his eyes for a split second, glancing at the stranger.

Raphael shook his head, his hands unbuckling the Winchester rifle strapped to the saddle and slung it over his shoulder by the leather strap. “Naw, gotta try and find this fellow I’ve been trackin’ for the last dozen months.” He pulled the saddle bags off and checked each one before he huffed at the contents. Raphael effectively ignored him then, busy at work counting bullets and filling a bandoleer for his rifle.

Donatello stared at the man for a moment, indulging himself and allowing his eyes to caress the way this fellow moved. It wasn’t as if he were graceful, Raphael was just strong. Every time his hand grasped something, the way his shoulder would move and stretch the fabric of his shirt, and the way he settled back on his heels; it all had to do with power and control, and Donatello found he liked that about him. 

“So, you’re tracking down a man?” He asked, pulling out the last of the nails and setting the horse shoe aside, before he began to file the horse’s hoof smooth. “Are you some kind of bounty hunter?”

“Could say that.” Raphael inspected his six shooter, smoothing it down his arm as he checked the cartridges and the smooth glide of the barrel. He shook his head, snapping it back into place before he turned on him and Donatello straightened from the hoof, letting the horse’s foot drop from between his knees.

“What else would you call it? I can’t really see you as the type of man to follow another across the country to deliver some flowers.”

Raphael rolled his eyes and Donatello bit his cheek to keep his smile as small as possible.

“Look, I’m searchin’ for this fellow who leads a gang of thieves and rapists. He’s about seven feet tall. A real giant. Big and ugly; nasty scar on his jaw; and he’s got this branding on his arm of a dragon.” He motioned to his right arm. “He’s a real mean son-uv-a-bitch and I ain’t in a real talkative mood, Padre.” Raphael’s golden eyes flashed with an inner fire.

Donatello swallowed and nodded his head, because it was all he could do. Those burning eyes had haunted his dreams. Yet, his heart sank and he took a step back, gripping the file in his hand tight and swallowed hard. “Uh, yeah,” This wasn’t right. Raphael had a point, he was a man of God, he couldn’t allow him to go off and get himself killed. He glanced to the horse then back to Raphael, sweat gathering along the back of his neck. “I know that man. He rode into town about a month back. Him and his men killed old man Jenkins and took his land.”

His eyes practically glowed as he stepped in close, crowding into his space and Donatello inhaled sharply, smelling only Raphael’s rich musk with an underlying scent of gunpowder. “Where is he?” he growled low in his chest.

“You can’t seriously want to go out there after him? He killed every last man who went out there last time!” Donatello grabbed at his arm, gripping tight at his elbow. “You can’t just go charging in there half cocked. He’s got over two dozen men working for him, and that man threatened to ride into town and shoot us all if we disturbed him.” He couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t seriously going to put this town in jeopardy; was he?

“And you’re just sittin’ here while that bastard is out there on a murdered man’s land?” he leaned in close like a dark cloud breathing down his neck.

Donatello hissed right back and pushed into his space, his nose brushing across Raphael’s and he gained a step back from the stranger. “You don’t understand. He killed ten good men! I had to comfort their widows and children even as I laid them to rest. Sheriff Jones was the only one who got out alive from that hellish gunfight and he still can’t find a way onto that farm. That man even has guards out at night patrolling the hills with dogs sniffing for intruders. We’re going to need more than you to get rid of this criminal.”

“I can handle myself.” Raphael jerked his arm away, yanking his elbow out of Donatello’s grasp and jolting the turtle back into his body.

He stepped back and looked to the side, the file still gripped tightly in his other hand.

“I can handle myself.” Raphael repeated, adjusting the rifle on his back.

“I’m not saying you can’t, Mr. Raphael. Just looking at you, I knew you could. But you have to understand, I just don’t want to bury another good man.” He raised his eyes, catching the flicker of surprise that passed over Raphael’s face before the man pushed it away and hid behind that piss and vinegar glower.

“I ain’t a very decent man, Padre.” He folded his arms over his chest and Donatello swallowed hard, the fluttering in his heart suffocating him. “I’ve done things down right awful chasin’ men like him across the country.” He leaned forward, golden eyes spearing through Donatello’s heart. “I ain’t a very nice man either. I’ve done things that would make yer toes curl.”

Donatello shivered, unwilling to look away or pull away from this man. He was like an inferno, dragging him deeper into the blaze with every word he spoke and every action he threatened to perform. “Why risk your life?” his whisper traveled only between them and for a fleeting moment, Donatello thought he saw a flicker of confusion upon the man’s face.

“Why?” He rolled the question over his tongue and Donatello felt his cheeks flush, his fingers tremble, and he watched in the haze of a lazy morning glow as Raphael licked his lips and squared his shoulders. “Because if I don’t, no one will stop them.”

“We called for the U.S. Marshalls. They’ll stop those men-“

Raphael snorted and scowled down at him, shaking his head. “Like hell they will. Them Marshalls are all about the damn law in a lawless land. Ya have ta make a stand and let men like him know ya don’t allow their likes in yer town.”

“But there are other ways-“

“No, Padre! There ain’t!” He seemed to grow before him, wrathful and fearsome. “Ya’ll rolled over and let them settle in your town because ya’ll didn’t chase them off when ya had the chance!”

Donatello lifted his hand to touch Raphael’s shoulder, but he jerked his hand away and shook his head, thumping his fist against his thigh. “Yes, we had a window of opportunity to chase those men off, but Raphael, you have to understand, we didn’t know-“

“It don’t matter!” he pushed into his space again, pushing him back against the stable wall, hovering inches from his face and Donatello stared right back, licking his lips. “You protect first, ask questions later!”

 Donatello sighed and tilted his head, gazing up at Raphael, imploring him to listen. “You’re right.” He breathed Raphael in, watching the man’s nostrils flare and he smiled. “I’m just a priest, what do I know?”

Raphael’s jaw snapped shut and he took a step back, his brow twitching.

Bending over and once again lifting the horse’s hoof, Donatello got back to work, measuring horseshoes till he found one that could work and took note of the areas he would need to strike to make it fit the gelding. “If we listened to your logic, we should have shot you on sight as you entered the town. And where would that have left us? One less man to help us, and one less bullet.” He raised his eyes and Raphael turned away abruptly, storming out of the barn.

Donatello sighed and turned back to the horseshoe, running his finger along the hoof, measuring it a second time before he left for his forge and buried the metal into the smoldering red coals to heat. It gave him time to pray for Raphael’s safe return; because he knew, deep in his gut, this was what Raphael had come here to do – to stir up trouble by confronting the leader of the bandits who lived outside of town.

“Please, Lord, keep him safe…” and Donatello fanned the coals, causing the fire within to swell and burn all the hotter.


	3. Friday Part 1

Chapter 3

Part 1

~~~~~*~~~~~

Friday

 

Crawling up the hill, slow and easy to keep the dust from stirring and giving his position away, Raphael pulled his hat from his head and peeked over the ridge, gazing down upon the landscape below and the farm nestled comfortably within the green plains.

The farm had gone to hell; and Raphael knew a thing or two about how a farm should be run to know a well tended one from one being put out to spoil like rotten meat. He scowled at the poor conditions of the horse corral. He was amazed the beasts hadn’t tried jumping the fence yet.

Guards sat at appropriate intervals, watching the hills above and the pastures behind, though none of the men carried any hint of concern regarding an ambush and half sat around an overturned barrel with a deck of cards playing poker.

Raphael skimmed over the men, counting thirty in total outdoors, before focusing upon the house. Smoke puffed from the chimney and a cook exited and reentered after dumping whatever had once been considered food out of the pot and into the pig pen. For a gang of merciless killers, they had a fairly decent set up.

Hun walked out of the house then and Raphael snarled, his teeth grinding. The man was like a moving mountain, massive in the shoulders, square jaw that could cut glass, and hands like anvils that smashed anything in their path. He barked orders, voice deep, and the men hopped to, gathering around him. He couldn't hear what they said, but he could see. Hun motioned toward the west, where the town lay. Raphael ducked his head back down and his shoulders tightened, hands reaching for his Winchester.

He wouldn't let that beast do this again. Those were good people down in that town. They didn't deserve to be massacred like sheep by wolves.

Pulling the rifle around and placing it against his shoulder, Raphael eased himself up and took aim, adjusting his sights. Red flashed in front of his eyes, the anger, pain, the loss...everything he had done to find this man; this murderer. He wouldn't let him do this again. Hun's head turned as he talked, his scarred cheek a mangled target in his crosshairs. With a slow exhale of the dry prairie air, Raphael pulled the trigger.

Blood exploded across Hun's face and the man fell backwards. He was up a second later, pushing the dead man off him who had stepped into the bullets path.

Raphael cursed and jerked on the lever of the Winchester, reloading the barrel and firing as he climbed to his feet. Arm pumping as man after man down below scrambled across the farmyard, Raphael felled one after another from his shots. Four men so far; a fifth. A bullet plowed into Raphael's leg and he dropped to his knee hissing at the searing hot lead. Hot blood gushed over his fingers and he grit his teeth. Flicking his eyes to the bandits below, Raphael forced himself to release his leg and he raised the rifle to his shoulder and exhaled slow passed the pain. He took aim at Hun's blond head and squeezed the trigger.

The hammer clicked emptiness.

Ducking below the rise of the hill, Raphael glanced down at his rented horse and instead of running for freedom he rolled to his back, pulled the barrel open and began reloading the rifle with the bullets in the bandolier across his chest. Sticky sweat trickled down his neck, his nostrils flared, and hot blood soaked his pants. The sun beat down on him, smoldering and relentless; just like the bullets flying over head, but he didn't mind it much, he had a bullet with Hun's name on it.

Locking the barrel, Raphael pumped the lever and steeled himself for the gun fight. Rolling over and peaking above the hill, he took aim and fired, picking the bandits off. Most of his shots simply injured them, leaving a man screaming and clutching an arm or leg, but now and then he lucked out and dropped men stone cold dead, sending them to hell where they belonged. The distance and the wind were his enemy today, causing his marksmanship skills to flounder in the heat of battle.

He just couldn't seem to hit Hun. The man moved like a train, barreling across the yard, six shooter out, and his bullets passed Raphael in the same crosswind.

Raphael grunted and struggled to his feet, the wound screaming in agony. He pointed the rifle at the large man and he fired.

Hun's head jerked to the side and he fell, blood oozing from his temple.

Raph held his breath, heart thundering as a bullet grazed his shoulder, he hardly felt the pain.

Then Hun groaned and moved. Raphael grabbed the hilt of his knife and took a step forward. A bullet clipped past his cheek. Dogs barked, set loose from the barn, and he cursed. This was shit is what it was. He finally found Hun and he'd have to retreat due to some lousy dogs? Snarling under his breath, he raced down the hill with a galloping limp.

The dogs bayed and crested the hill faster than their masters. Raphael swung into the saddle with a groan for his leg and immediately pulled his pistol and fired at the beasts. One yelped behind him and the mare screamed, her tail raised and eyes white as she jumped forward through the gun smoke, kicking up clumps of earth and grass.

He fought for the reins, cursing the horse and her nerves. Twisting in the saddle and leaning heavily on his good leg, Raphael aimed his six shooter and with luck on his side, he shot a man clean off his horse as a bandit took chase and topped the hill.

He didn't know how long he rode, the mare needing little encouragement, but eventually the dog howls faded, the whiz of bullets over head ended, and nothing but the thundering hooves and the rush of hot air across his face surrounded him.

Tugging back on the reins, Raphael panted, allowing the mare to circle in place. Standing in the saddle, he raked his eyes across the plains, searching for anything out of place - nothing moved except the dancing of green and yellow grass. The pain registered a moment later and he hissed, dropping back to the saddle in a rush. He tied off his leg with the bandana around his hat before he wheeled the fidgeting mare around and backtracked through the greener parts of the country, looking for scouts. He wasn't going to put that sleepy town to the gallows by being followed because of a stupid flesh wound. Nothing found and the mare huffing and pulling relentlessly on the reins, he finally relented and turned back for the town.

Shuffling into town, little puffs of dust trailing her hooves, Raphael glanced back one last time and finally allowed himself to relax. The mare’s head lifted at the sight of the livery attached to the general store she called home and her feet picked up the pace, her head shaking and fighting the reins. Raphael, head held high, ignored the whispers as faces appeared in windows, men gathered along the boardwalks with hands on guns, and women scurried inside with children into shops and neighbor's homes.

His head hurt. He was thirsty. He wanted a stiff drink. He wanted to sleep. A bath. A fuck. Anything really at this point other than facing the failure of his day.

Hun was still alive.

"Raphael!"

He saw him, jogging his way with sleeves rolled to his elbows and white square at his throat and looking for all the world neat and tidy. It made him look dreadfully good. He pulled the mare to a stop and swallowed hard. He hadn't had anyone looking out for him in a long time. He'd forgotten what that felt like.

"Are you all right? What happened?" The Padre; the only brave son-uv-a-bitch to run toward him. Raphael glared at him, wiping sweat from his brow, and the priest just stared right back at him with the darkest eyes he had ever seen. He had such compassion in them that Raphael swallowed hard, unable to look away from the enigma that was this priest. What sort of priest actually took his calling seriously and cared for strangers? He had been run out of plenty of towns – all of them with the priest in the lead delivering the message. But this man…he hadn’t done that. He welcomed him, offered him aid; a job. 

Donatello took the mare's reins, holding her in place easily. "I'm fine." Raphael tugged on the reins but the Padre snorted and held tight, refusing to step away.

"You didn't-"

Raphael just stared back and the Padre dropped his eyes, spying his injured leg. His free hand reached for it, his brows knotted. Raphael stiffened and the priest jerked his hand back, throat bobbing before he forced a smile and shrugged, "Looks like you got yourself there a souvenir."

He scoffed. "Dick."

Donatello simply smiled back and before he knew it, a smug grin made its way onto his face.

The sheriff appeared up the street, his dark hair loose and sweat on his brow as he pushed his hat back the closer he got. The Padre's face flushed as his buddy appeared, and he looked away, stroking the mare's nose.

Sheriff Jones' expression was priceless, his lips thin as he looked from Raphael's bloody leg then to his face. Raph dared the sheriff to say something with an upturn of his lip.

"We should get the doctor for him, Casey. He's still bleeding. He may be an idiot, but he deserves a doctor nonetheless." The Padre's voice dipped.

"Father-"

"Now, Casey, you wouldn't want the idiot who is shooting those bandits on Jenkins' farm to die, would you?"

For a blistering moment, Raphael couldn't tell if he would be sleeping in a jail cell, or if the holy man was trying to save his sorry ass.

Casey's lips thinned.

"Look, Donnie, I'm fine-"

The Padre's eyes flashed like a charging bull the way the priest stared him down. "You have a bullet wound with congealed blood and a dirty bandana keeping you from bleeding out. I'm taking you to the Doctor whether you want to or not." He snapped and his cheeks flushed, the mare fidgeted, dancing in place. Not once did the priest let her gain her head.

Dropping the reins as Jones opened his mouth, Raph snorted, scoffing at the man. "Fine! Lead the way, Padre. Ain't gonna deny a priest his damn service project."

“Show some respect, boy.” Jones snapped, his hand moving toward his holster.

“I ain’t your boy.” Raphael narrowed his eyes. The horse walked forward abruptly and he lurched in the saddle, grabbing at the horn to keep his seat. The Padre led the horse through the streets toward the outskirts of town where a white-washed home sat nestled between some birch trees and atop a small rise in the land.

A crocodile stepped out adjusting a pair of glasses upon his nose. A fancy pocket watch draped across the front of his vest, tucked away in his left hand pocket. Crisp and clean as he rolled his sleeves up, Raphael shifted a little in the saddle and swore if the Doc stuck him with a needle he would cuss out his sorry ass.

“Donatello, my friend, I see you have brought me an idiot.”

Maybe he’d cuss him out on principal alone.

"Does everyone in this town think I'm an idiot?"

"Yes." Donatello smirked up at him.

Raphael puffed up, gripping the saddle horn all the tighter, opening his mouth to retort - Donatello reached back then and patted his injured leg, effectively shutting him up as he stifled a yelp.

“I have, LH, he was shot in the leg.” He smiled and turned to Raphael, dark eyes boring into him. “You be polite and I may help you inside.”

“I can do it myself.” He growled and twisted in the saddle, dismounting from the right. The mare pawed the ground and stepped backward, her tail slapping her flanks from the unfamiliar action. Raphael grabbed at the saddle and hissed passed his teeth hopping on his good leg to keep up with the mare. Damn leg hurt like the devil in a church on Sunday!

The priest tied the horse at one of the rails in front of the doctor’s home, and soon joined Raphael’s side. The Padre took his arm and looped it around his shoulders, and slid his own around his waist, all warm and deceptively strong. He helped him up the stairs, moving slow and so patient. Raphael could only watch his steps, biting his tongue against the anger there as he leaned upon the Padre, their sides pressed together tightly. He wanted to hate the Padre. He didn’t need his help. Yet…

The inside of the Doc’s clinic was spotless. Much cleaner than others he had seen. The home was set up different, open in the middle, and like a wagon spoke, patient rooms circled the parlor. Benches sat outside bedrooms, and a round table with flowers adorned the top. It made the Doc's hospital strangely open and fresh. The Doc led them into a room and nodded at the examination table.

"Remove your clothing and take a seat, please."

Raphael leaned against the table and tried to kick his boots off, scowling as they refused to comply.  The Padre stepped forward, his eyes flicking away with stiff shoulders, then he bent and pulled one boot off, then the other.

“I’m not an invalid.” Raphael grunted and shifted his weight, glancing down at his wounded leg.

“Pants off.” The Doctor called as he washed his hands and arms in a basin on the other side of the room.

Raphael undid his gun belt and the Padre took them, gently laying them atop a table near the door. He didn’t like having his gun so far away. He loathed it in fact, the longer he stared passed the Padre, his fingers twitching.

“Let me help.” Donatello whispered and Raphael jerked as he stepped forward, into his space.

Cheeks flushed scarlet, Donatello stared down, his hands reaching for the hem of his pants, each button undone quickly. The second Raph slipped his arms out from the suspenders, his pants pooled around his ankles and the Padre shied away, touching the white collar at his neck.

The Padre’s hands shook as he stood there, staring at the center of his chest. Raphael caught his eyes, and for just a flicker of a second the Padre stared back in hunger. Raphael couldn’t move, and the longer he stood there, with the Doc moving around behind them, the less he understood. A whispered prayer shuddered in the air and the priest took hold of his shirt buttons.

He could only think of one other time he saw a man's face as red as the priest's, and that was his pap's face after trying one of them red chili peppers from south of the border. He took the man's hand, his throat bobbing. “At least let me buy ya dinner first.” Raphael tried to laugh, but his voice failed into a choked whisper. He kicked himself for it, but by the blush spreading along the Padre’s face, he figured it was better that it remained between them.

The Padre stared at him, his lips parting. Raph squeezed the table behind him, his stomach flipping. The Padre looked like he saw right into him, saw the colors of his soul and still wouldn't back down because he saw something there he liked.

Blinking rapid and inhaling sharp, he came out of his daze and focused on dark eyes that had flecks of red. The priest grabbed Raph's hat from the top of his head, turned on his heel and once again stood beside the little table by the door and set it atop his gun. Shoulders stiff, his fingers traced the edge of his hat, and Raphael watched the priest as he finished undressing.

 What the hell?

Raphael tossed his shirt onto a chair, pants quick to follow, and he stood there in only his underpants, blood oozing down his leg, and sweat on his brow. Raphael swallowed hard and folded his arms over his chest as tight as he could.

Like a man compelled, the Padre turned and his eyes drank him in like a man having been lost in the desert for years. Raphael’s brow twitched.

“Thank you, Donatello. I can take it from here.” The Doctor stepped around the table carrying a tray of instruments he just knew were going to hurt like a bitch.

The priest stepped out, jerking his eyes down and his hands darted up to touch at his collar. “Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be in your way, LH. I’ll just wait outside on the porch.”

LH smiled, his white crocodile teeth far too close for Raphael’s tastes.

But as the Padre left, his cheeks still blushing, his fingers unable to leave his collar, he sent him one last look from the doorway before he moved down the hall and the front door clicked shut a moment later. Raphael frowned and slid himself up onto the table with the Doc’s aid and laid down on it, his shot leg presented to the Doc. Raphael swallowed hard against the pain.

He didn’t understand the Padre. He just didn’t understand why he focused on him like he did. He was a lost cause, was the Padre starting to realize that? The way his eyes could reach into his soul and read him seemed to suggest just that. He wasn’t worth the effort; but he supposed he had liked feeling like he was for a while.. _._

“Hold still. This is going to hurt.”

The Doc dug his fingers into his wound and Raphael screamed.


	4. Friday Part 2

Chapter 3

Part 2

~~~~~~*~~~~~

Friday

 

“Don, I’m tellin’ ya, he ain’t nothing but trouble and you can’t honestly be sayin’ you want to keep that wolf around.” Casey hissed, pointing at the Doc’s door.

Donatello sat on the porch in one of those rocking chairs LH had put out there for friends and family. Hands clasped tight upon his knees, knuckles white the longer he sat perfectly still, lost in his own thoughts like a bird in the clouds. His focus wasn’t on his friend and helping him decide what was best for the town; it worried him that his sinful desires were winning.

Swallowing hard, Donatello lifted his head and stared directly at his friend with dust kicking around him from the puffs of evening wind as he blocked the sun from his eyes. “It’s already in motion, Casey. Its better we keep a man around who’s willing to do what we cannot against those men out on Jenkin’s farm, than to lose a gun to our unfounded fears.”

Tipping his hat back and wiping his brow, Casey shook his head, his free hand resting atop his six shooter. “I don’t like this, Don.” He hissed, glaring at the door, and no doubt imagining it was Raphael standing there. “He’s no good. Ya said so yourself; he’s a fox in a henhouse. He’s done going ta destroy us.”

“Not if we destroy ourselves first.” Donatello said then snapped his mouth shut and bowed his head, his hands gripping all the tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” He swallowed past the lie. “Besides, I believe you said that.” The sun beat down on him, a ball of fire at the end of town, eating at him as if promising his own damnation if he continued on this path.

No. He wouldn’t do this. Inhaling slow and deep, Donatello took a moment, pushing Raphael out of his mind and repeating a prayer. It soothed him, calmed him from the overwhelming desire to betray his vows. Raphael was fine. He would be gone soon enough anyhow and leave town forever. The Marshalls would be here any day now to clean up his mess. Raph was a stranger, a desperado wandering the plains. That wasn’t how Donatello wished to live. He wouldn’t give up his life just because his physical body was at odds with his immortal soul.

“Donatello, what’s wrong? Did that fellow say somethin’ to ya?” Casey stepped forward, resting a foot upon the first step.

Donatello shook his head, smiling to his friend. “I’m sorry. I think I’m just worried is all. I knew what he planned to do since he brought his horse to me this morning. I should have come to you, but I thought after he saw the number of men that giant of a mudsill had under his command, Raphael would change his mind and come back without having...” he swallowed, “gotten hurt.” His fingers tightened around each other.

Casey sighed and bowed his head, hands on his hips. “I got ta say, I admire him. Makes me wish I had gone with him and taken down some of those murderin’ sons-uv-bitches. Pardon the language, Father.”

“I would have protested if you had gone.” Don chuckled, forcing his hands apart and he wiggled his fingers, compelling some of the tension out. He couldn’t act like this. He needed to focus. “Who would I talk too if you died?”

“Michelangelo?” Casey offered, a smile rolling over his angular face.

He snorted at that, waving his hand. “As much as I love Michelangelo, he doesn’t have enough cents in his head to make a dollar. I would find myself running with the Indians before I had a sensible conversation with that one.”

The two chuckled and the unease of the situation drained slowly from their shoulders.

Moving up the creaky steps, he took a seat beside him in one of the many rocking chairs. Casey thumped his foot up on the railing of the porch and stared out at their little town, the sun setting on the horizon behind the mountains. “We are goin’ ta need to get ready tomorrow. I don’t see that kind of man sittin’ still after an ambush like this.”

“I agree.” Donatello bobbed his head, feeling far too warm in his priest outfit. “We should let the townsfolk have one more good night’s rest. We can go and visit them tomorrow, let them know what happened and prepare them for the possibility of retaliation.”

“Sounds fair enough.”

Donatello smiled with the sun warm on his face. “I’ll spend a little extra time in the church tonight, and I’ll pray for us all. I know Raphael’s arrival has stirred up trouble we don’t wish to see, but I can’t help but feel that his arrival is also what will be our salvation.” Casey’s face hardened, his mouth a severe line cutting across his face. Donatello looked away, wiping his palms against the knees of his pants. He could see him in his head, looking inviting instead of repulsed like he knew deep down he would be if he were to know his lusts. “It’s not my place to question God and his plans for us.” He smiled then, silently asking for strength. “I’m honestly only a vessel by which I remind us that God is close to us all if we so choose to reach out and accept his Grace. This is my reminder to you, Casey, that even Jesus loved those who hated him. He befriended those he met. Should we not do the same?”

Casey bowed his head and rubbed his face, his calloused palms hissing against his stubble. “You’re right. I don’t got to carry this load alone.” Donatello patted his shoulder before Casey stood and moved down the steps. “I’ll take the horse back to Jed, you just make certain Raphael gets back ta his room fine enough.”

“Of course.” Donatello leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, shoulders relaxed. “And you need to go pay your lovely fiancée a visit.”

Casey’s face turned red and he huffed, rubbing at his neck and shuffling in the dirt before he bolted for the mare and fumbled with her reins. “She’s not my fiancée.”

“Yet.”

With a stumble and nervous half-wave, Casey tugged the mare after him and back to the general store.

Donatello chuckled and leaned back in his chair, looping his elbow over the back of his seat.

It was at least a plan. Not a very promising one, but something they at least felt like they could control. Prepare the town for the worst and hope for the Marshalls to arrive soon.

               

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

LH wiped his hands clean, glancing over his shoulder only once at the unconscious patient upon his table. Donatello leaned in the doorway, his arms folded along his belly with a smile on his face. LH didn’t believe that smile for one second.

“He’ll need plenty of rest. His leg should heal just fine, though he’ll need to stay off it for at least a month. Though, I know better than to assume he’ll do it. Keep him off it for a week at least.” He didn’t believe for one second a man like that would listen at all. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was up and walking around town tomorrow morning. LH tossed the bloody rag into the wash basin, the medical tools rattled, and he snorted against the coppery scent in the air. He removed his apron with the bloodstains smeared across the front gingerly then adjusted his glasses before he settled a look upon his friend. “He needs to give his leg time to actually heal.”

“I’ll take him on as my charge, LH. Do not worry.”

“I’m not worried about him. I could care less.” LH hung the apron on a peg and approached his friend, his sleeves still rolled up and even after surgery, he remained blissfully spotless. LH was a master at his profession and he prided himself on that. “I’m worried about you, Donatello.” He folded his arms over his chest and gazed down the length of his nose at his friend and got a raised brow in return.

They stared at one another, a fly circling past Donatello’s head without so much as a swat as it curled its way into the room and alighted upon the rim of the wash basin. Donatello shook his head and looked away, his shoulders stiffening. LH snorted and took a seat on the bench he had nestled near the door beside a coat rack. “My friend, I respect you greatly, and my silence will never be broken. But you must listen to me when I tell you to keep your distance from this one. He is no good like an apple rotten from the middle outward.”

Donatello grew smaller where he stood and LH saw the flicker in his smile, but just like an actor upon the New York stages, he caught his stumble and continued his lie with precision and ease. “I don’t suppose you would be pleased to have Mikey caring for him? I could turn his care over for the saloon-“

LH rubbed his brow, “No, Michelangelo would possibly kill the poor man by doting all over him. I know the man will at least recover in your capable hands.” His teeth clicked at the end of his snout and he stared at the floor, his tail twitching. “I am simply….giving my friend advice. If he wishes to listen, that is his choice. I just feel this man could possibly be bringing thoughts into his head that are dangerous for his well being.” He tried to catch Donatello’s eye, but the priest stared at the floorboards, his throat bobbing under his collar. He looked like how he did, that night so long ago, a mere boy on the cusp of manhood, asking him questions that he knew all too well were meant to answer his own inner thoughts. He looked so fragile then; he looked broken now.

Donatello scuffed his foot across the floor, his fingers digging into his arms. He finally nodded and LH returned the gesture, their eyes meeting for a flicker of a heartbeat before LH stood, slow and weary and waved him inside. “Thank you for the advice, LH.” He whispered and LH frowned. How completely taken was he over this man? “And thank you for caring for him. I’ll escort him back to the saloon now.”

“I can walk jus’ fine.” Raphael slurred and LH folded his arms, watching the man struggle to sit up, his skin pale compared to the day he arrived, and his eyes drooped. Even his breath seemed so tired and weak.

“It would be best to keep weight off that leg.” LH moved forward and without preamble, placed a hand on his chest and shoved him back down. The man groaned, eyes squeezed shut.

“LH-“

“Donatello.” LH turned back to him and his hands curled into fists. He was a patient man, and this community had even helped him gain control, slowing his temper to a slow simmer; but a temper he had and he was at his wits end. His friend walked a razor’s edge to destruction and he wouldn’t stand by and watch him fall without at least trying to stop him.

Donatello smiled and it made LH pause because he saw it, there in his eyes. Resignation. “It’s all right.” He whispered and stepped forward, taking Raphael’s arm and helped the stubborn man sit up. He helped him with his pants and slid one of the suspenders over his shoulder. He gathered up his belongings, slinging his shirt and gun belt over his shoulder and plopped Raphael’s hat atop his head, and without another word, they shuffled from the warm surgery room, the larger turtle leaning heavily upon the priest.

He looked like a porcelain doll lying shattered on the ground.

LH watched them both go, struggling down the five steps of his porch and across the dusty lot toward the saloon. His friend molded himself to Raphael and tried to take as much of the burden as possible. He fit against him, his arms curled about him, his steps slow and strong, moving at the larger man’s pace. His stomach turned and LH marched back into his clinic, filling a fresh basin with clean water and scrubbed at the bloodstains on the surgery table.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

It took nearly half an hour to finally get Raphael up the stairs, not because his leg gave out on him or because he refused Donatello’s help, but because he argued with Michelangelo for twenty of those minutes about not needing his help specifically.

Don pushed Raphael's door open and refused to allow him to pull away until he sat upon the edge of his bed. Amber eyes glared at him as he stepped away and he glared right back, arms crossing over his chest. “It wasn’t right of you to do that. Going off and confronting that gang.”

“It’s none of your business, Padre.”

“I have a name.” he snapped lips pursed and hands balling into fists. He took a slow breath and stared out the window of the second floor at the crimson and pumpkin stained sky. “What I meant, Raphael, was that by confronting them and not finishing your business, you made it our business. Those boys are going to come for us because you drew their attention our way.”

“Don’t get yer panties in a bunch, Donnie.” Raphael grunted and shifted on the bed, his face twisting with discomfort.

Donatello bit the inside of his cheek and peeked out of the corner of his eye at him. Raphael wiggled upon the bed removing one boot in the process. The second boot not being so willing as his injury stifled his movements. Rubbing his elbow and turning back to face him, Donatello caught his eyes and his face began to heat up.

The man’s brows twitched and his mouth thinned to a harsh line across his face that proved neither welcoming nor dismissive. Raphael nodded and looked away, leaning back on his hands with a grunt and grumble. Donatello dropped to a knee, easing Raph's last boot off. The room was warm and heady, and it smelled like a male. The window did little to light the room and dust motes floated in the air lazily, twisting and dipping then traveling back up toward the ceiling. Donnie folded Raphael's shirt he had carried from the Doc's, placed it on the chair with his belt and gun atop that, and set his boots neatly beside the chair. His hat perched on a peg by the door.

When he turned back around, he encountered golden eyes that bore into him, and Raphael leaned forward with an elbow atop his good knee. He touched the square of white at his throat and smiled to Raphael, his other hand pressing to his belly hoping to calm it and persuade the butterflies to settle. “Doctor LH told me you need to rest for a week. I offered my services-“

“Padre, what the hell do ya want from me?”

Donatello’s smile fell and his blood went cold like the unexpected attack of a bee sting. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. A prayer sprang to mind and he sucked in a breath of air. “I don’t expect anything from you. I am simply here to look after the Lord’s flock – even those who stray and wander in from the wilds.”

Raphael snorted and his head bowing, staring at the floor, his shoulders bobbing as if he were laughing.

Donatello frowned, his fingers easing their grip. "You’re a good man, I want to help you despite what you think-"

With an abrupt motion, he stood, hissing and hopping on his good leg as he snatched Donatello’s arm and he tugged him close, his nose brushing across his. Don's heart raced against his ribs. “I ain’t a good man, Donnie. Stop actin’ like I am.”

“No one is forever lost.” Donatello whispered, the hand against his belly pressed in harder, his fingers gripping at his shirt. “Even the prodigal son – after doing so much wicked – was welcomed back home with open arms.”

“Are ya goin’ ta save me, Padre? Are ya goin’ ta be the one to save my soul and cleanse me of my sins? I’ve killed men. Pretty sure that there ain’t allowed in the Book.”

“It’s not for me to judge.” Donnie whispered and Raphael’s nostrils flared, his eyes consuming him. This stranger scared him and yet excited him. He asked the questions the good God-fearing townsfolk didn’t. He looked him in the eye and wanted answers; and Donatello reveled in it as well as drowned in the fact he was answering questions he himself feared to address if he were to ever....

“I ain’t a good man.” Raphael’s voice dipped.

“I’m not either.”

“Better than me.”

“No, I think we’re about equal.” He smiled then, fake and weak and he gripped all the tighter at his shirt.

Nose brushing against his, his breath tickling his lips, the strength in his hand upon his arm - he swallowed hard, reveling in it. But, this wasn’t right. He turned his face away and sipped at the air. “It’s not my job to place judgment. I am a voice and a guide, but I am not judge and jury. The Bible does say, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Yet, what if it is God’s plan that you end the reign of an evil man? Was it not David’s destiny to put a stop to Goliath? Why should it not be your destiny to stop that man?”

“You gonna tell me, Padre, that just because I catch a few bad men, that I ain’t accountable for my actions?”

Donatello smiled and looked back to him, wishing he could reach forward and wipe that crease in the center of his brow away, “No,” and with a quiver, his heart rapping, he did reach for him, his fingers brushing across Raphael’s waist. “and yes.”

Raphael’s brows knotted, his grip on his elbow tightened, searching him as if they stood here, dancing with the devil.

“And it’s Donnie.”

With a hiss Raphael pulled back, his shoulders heaving, his face twisting in confusion – then he placed his weight upon his leg and he hissed, reaching for the wound.

He didn’t ask nor coddle him. Donatello took his arm and helped Raphael back toward the bed. He drew the covers back, smoothing the rough sheets and he fluffed the pillow, patting it, ordering him to lie down. Raphael obeyed, watching him the entire time. Don simply smiled, whispering a prayer in his heart. He tucked him in, pulling the blankets up to Raphael’s chin, a glass of water on the bedside table, and a lingering hand upon his shoulder. “I’ll tell Michelangelo to bring you up some food. He’ll worry until he knows you’re settled.”

“He’s a busy-body is what he is.” He didn’t have the same fire in his voice and he stared past him at the ceiling.

“Perhaps, but he cares about everyone, no matter how long he has known them.” Donatello patted his shoulder, offering him a smile. "Do rest, I would very much like to see you recover quickly." He turned, the floorboards creaking with age, and he moved for the door, his hand reaching for the doorknob.

“I ain’t gonna promise you nothin'; and I ain't gonna do your confessional.”

Donatello paused, his stomach flipping. He wanted to stay, talk. But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. On so many levels he needed to ignore his comment and walk out that door. He brushed his thumb over the doorknob, smoothing the front of his shirt down. Looking back at this man, one suspender around his waist, the other cutting a striking red line along his exposed plastron and showcasing his broad shoulders, he wondered how life would have been if he had just remained a blacksmith and not taken on the responsibility of becoming a Man of the Cloth.

No. He couldn’t think this way. It was better this way.

“Even if you don’t, I hope that won’t stop you from attending my sermon. I would very much like to see your face there on Sunday.” He smiled.

Raphael looked away, his mouth thin and tight.

He closed the door behind him and shrank in on himself as his hands shook. He opened his mouth, trying to just breathe past the stifled pressure upon his chest.

Lust and greed, even envy. What would it be like to not care? It seemed so easy. It seemed so free and fulfilling. What if he gave it all up? Left his home, his town, everything he loved and left for one of the big cities. He had heard the stories, of men like him, of establishments where his kind could go and not be hunted down, beaten, or worse. He could indulge and allow his curiosity to experience the darker decadences he desired.

He forced himself to move, his steps heavy as he fled from Raphael’s room and down the hallway. He didn’t make it too far before he fell against the wall, slumped against it. He hid his face away and breathed deep and fast.

Yet, it was just that – too easy. No matter how easy or delicious it seemed, no matter where he went, he wouldn’t truly be free, for that kind of freedom carried its own cost. Easy yes, but at the end of his days, would he look back and see the quality of life he wanted? Would he see selfish desires or selfless service? Would he look back and see fanciful wanderings of carefree days that led to nothing significant? Or would he look back on his life and know that he tried to be honest to himself. He tried so hard to uphold his values and beliefs, he didn’t want to lie to himself and cheapen his life by pretending to not care. He was worth more than that.

He wanted it all in some corner of his mind. He wanted to walk away, leave his collar, his vows, and discover this other side to himself and yet...he knew himself. He didn’t lock that side of himself away in a dark corner to never acknowledge. By facing it, he understood himself. By looking at himself as a whole, he knew he could never survive that life. He didn’t desire the abandonment of self for the sake of experimentation. He wanted something deeper. Meaningful.

Donatello’s face twisted up and he pressed his palm to his lips, holding back anything that could slip past him. He shook his head, for he knew he would never have that. He would never share his life with another…he knew Raphael wouldn’t.

A door across the hall clicked as someone twisted the knob and Donatello jerked away from the wall and marched down the hall, swallowing the lump in his throat.


	5. Saturday

Chapter 4

~~~~~*~~~~~

Saturday

 

The gunshots came at dawn, just as the sunlight peeked over the stretch of empty prairie land and nipped at the heels of darkness. Donatello jerked awake and jumped from his bed, one hand reaching for his rifle, the other pulling his pants on even as he rushed from his room and out the front door only half aware of why he was even out of bed.

Pulling a suspender over his shoulder, Donatello ducked as gunshots fired in the air and he dove behind the water trough in front of his shop. Peeking over the edge, he could see them, whirling their horses about, kicking up dust with guns raised above their heads. Twenty or so men this time, and all led by the brute that had shown up out of nowhere a few weeks back.

The big man, the leader of the bandits, jumped from his horse’s saddle, his men following suit, and the big fellow pulled his twin six shooters from their holsters and kicked the door of Miss O’Neil’s home in. His men did the same and chose homes or businesses at random with whoops and hollers. Miss O’Neil was a proper lady from the northeast who had one day gotten it into her red head to travel out west to give the children a right proper education. Though a strict schoolmarm, the children adored her; as did most of the single men in town.

“April!” Sheriff Jones bellowed and jumped the porch rails of the jail house, Winchester rifle firing and the butt of the gun used to break the nose of any who got in his way.

“What right do you have to barge in here?” April’s voice shouted and dominated all other noise, even the screams and gunshots. “Get out of my home!” Something shattered and a gun went off and Casey cried out, jumping her stairs and bursting into her home. A moment later Casey flew out of it and rolled through the dirt, his Winchester missing.

Donatello leapt to his feet, taking a step toward his friend when breaking glass sounded from across the street. A girl screamed and a man yelled out for some rope as he dragged Andrea Dawson, a thirteen year old girl, from her home and fired his gun behind him. Turning instantly toward them, Donatello’s heart leapt into his throat and he ran toward her. Bullets flew at him from up the street and Donatello did not care, all he could focus upon was that someone was kidnapping one of his flock.

“Put that gun down and let her go!” Donatello cocked his Henry rifle and slid in the dirt, the sun beating against the side of his face and reflecting off the metal of the barrel. The intruder paused, his gun hand trembling. “I said put it down!”

The bandit hesitated a moment longer, holding tight to Andrea’s hair as she sobbed. He wasn’t a man, he was no more than fifteen. The boy turned slowly, gangly and small compared to the brute down the street beating Casey. Donatello supposed he should be out there helping his friend, but a whooping cry from the Saloon and Donatello knew Michelangelo had it covered. The boy dropped his gun and released Andrea and raised his hands slowly. 

Andrea rushed back into the house and the door slammed shut behind her and through the window, he could see her father’s arms around her with a gun pointed at the door and some blood dripping from his elbow.

The boy quaked before him, like a yearling colt afraid of a snake. A too large red and white bandana was wrapped about his head, like one of them Mexicans from the south, or one of them Indian tribes he heard about sometimes from drifters. Donatello stepped closer, measured and balanced. “You better reconsider your choices, boy. I might consider not shooting you if you walk away right now.” He gritted his teeth, his breathing coming in quick gasps.

“S-sorry…I…I’ll just go....” the kid pointed over his shoulder, sweat gathering along his neck and dripping down slow and sticky.

Donatello inhaled slowly and lowered his rifle from his shoulder, keeping it trained upon the boy yet diffusing a bit of the tension. He was only a child after all. “What’s your name, kid?” Donatello moved closer.

“D-Danny.” He stumbled over his name, wiping his palms against his pants.

Donatello glanced up the street and saw Michelangelo receiving a punch to the face by the big fellow, and he spotted Raphael striding out of the saloon with an ignored limp, loading his six shooter, and hellfire in his eyes. Turning back to the boy, Donatello pursed his lips and sighed through his nose, “Do we have an understanding? If you leave now-“Something hard and heavy thudded against the side of Donatello’s head and he fell forward, grasping at his skull. A kick to his ribs followed and he shouted in pain, curling into himself to protect his vulnerable areas. Another window shattered and Donatello gasped for air, struggling to his hands and knees only to be kicked again in the side and he tumbled face first into the sandy earth, gagging on his own pain. Two pairs of hands grabbed his arms and threw him backwards. He rolled in the dirt, sliding to a stop in front of his church and Donatello settled there, blinking blindly at the bright blue and white sky, clouds drifting past with a golden lining of morning light – twin shadows interrupted into his line of sight and two gnarled and bearded men loomed over him, pistols in hand, and one of them drew the hammer back with a click.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

Growing up in southern Texas, Raphael had heard it all whenever anyone talked about him; everything from loco to savage brute. He was always the first to volunteer for the hard work, always bullheaded enough to take on any dare, and he was always the first to give the God honest truth. Raphael never did learn the meaning of ‘tactful’ or how to have ‘patience’. Living in the south, raising the family cattle with his Ma and Pap, his older brother, his younger brothers and sisters to look after, Raphael had been happy. Plenty to do down there, keeping their land theirs and chasing off the occasional cattle thief or coyote that slunk in. Raphael learned real fast how to use a gun at the age of seven, and he became damn good at it.

He watched from the window in his room on the second floor, one of the saloon girls huddled in the corner; Joy-something…at least, he thought that was her name. Anger boiled deep within his chest, seeping out and taking over all logic. This had happened to him. This had destroyed everything he had cared about – and this gang, that man – they had taken it from him.

Not bothering to dress, Raphael took up his gun and a handful of bullets, unhitching the barrel as he thundered down the steps of the saloon, ignoring every blossom of pain his leg experienced with his movements. One suspender over his shoulder and in just his boots, he stepped out of the saloon, shoved the bullets into the barrel with his eyes locked on Hun as his meaty fist connected hard with the saloon owner’s face and split the poor fellow’s lip bloody.

Flicking the barrel in place and giving it a twirl to make sure it wouldn’t jam, Raphael pulled the hammer back and snarled, never stopping as he marched toward him, “Hun!”

Turning slow and with a smile that curdled diary, Hun stared right back and grinned, his ponytail caught in the wind.

Raphael fired, a scream burbling forth till it became a roar. Hun ducked and dropped Michelangelo and dove to the side, dodging the bullets Raphael shot his way by hiding behind a water trough.

The town erupted then, guns firing everywhere, windows shattering, women screaming and dogs barking. The horses bellowed and tossed their heads, fighting their leads, and the entire town became a gun smoke filled street of chaos and bullets.

Clicking the barrel open and emptying the shells from his shooter, Raphael marched through the center of the street, ignoring everything around him but for the water trough Hun dove behind. Without looking he fired upon a man charging him with a knife, hitting him square between the eyes; he shot another man hiding near the corner of the general store without so much as taking the time to aim; and he shot two more bandits at the other end of main street who raised their guns against the Padre laying in the dirt. He reloaded his gun a third time, spun the barrel, and locked it in place. Raphael drew the well oiled hammer back, leveled his gun and came around the trough with a sharp inhale. Hun was gone. Raphael swiveled on his heels, nostrils flaring and eyes wide and searching.

A horse cried out, bolting from between the general store and the fabric shop. Hun and several of his gang galloped full speed out of town, saddle bags full of stolen goods. Guns and rifles fired after them, the general store owner running along the boardwalks and firing his rifle, someone’s old Nan leaning out an upper story window and shooting some relic of a pistol. He even saw a seven year old boy up on his roof take aim as the bandits racing into through the streets, the bandits screaming and whipping the beasts across the flanks.

“Hun!” Raphael roared, running after him in a heavy, loping limp, gun leading and firing wildly. He hit one man in the shoulder and he fell from his horse as they passed the church, but a boy leapt into the saddle in his place and rode after Hun. He continued to fire long after his gun clicked with hollow pings of the hammer striking empty shells.

Raphael screamed, a pure and wild eruption of hatred and anguish that reverberated through the quieting town. He limped down the center of the dry street. No chance of him catching the yellow bellied son-uv-bitches disappearing in a cloud of dust – not even if his horse was saddled and ready, his damn leg wouldn’t have it. Three bullets left in his pocket, no horse; and no god damned hat.

He glared after Hun, breathing hard through his nose. Gunpowder and blood filled his nose and Raphael ground his teeth together. He had needed this massacre; it reminded him that even now he wasn’t wrong in his hunt for the man.

A few members of Hun’s gang lingered, fleeing the city on foot or horse stealing if the opportunity presented itself; and perhaps it explained why Raphael didn’t notice the priest till he was a few yards away from him, stumbling to his feet, blood streaming down from his temple with bruises littering his exposed shoulders and the softer skin between plastron and scutes. But Raphael did take particular notice when the priest cold-cocked a bandit with a missing tooth and a bullet wound in his shoulder right in the left eye and dropped him hard to the dirt.

“You uncultured barbarian!” the priest hissed and delivered a weak kick to the gut of the man. The bandit groaned and the priest kicked him a second time before he lost his balance and stumbled, pressing his hand to his bruised temple.

Well shit, that was a damn fine right hook there.

The priest tripped and fell to his knees, holding his ribs tight despite the look of pain that clouded his features.

The bandit held his face, snarling and drew his gun, his right eye unfocused and his hand trembling, but aimed none-the-less upon the priest.

Raphael darted forward and kicked him hard in the jaw, snapping his head around. The man dropped with a cloud of dirt erupting around him before it settled over his limp form. Raphael groaned and dropped to a knee, grabbing at his injured leg. Fresh blood seeped through the fabric. He hissed and spit curses even as he reached out and confiscated the man’s gun, emptying the barrel and pocketing the bullets before tucking the piece into his belt.

“Oi, Padre, you livin’?”

The priest raised his head, peeking at him through one eye and smirked, turning his head to spit blood. “Doing splendid.” 

Raphael snorted before he grunted and dragged himself to his feet, hopping on his good leg. He eased his weight back onto his wounded one and limped toward the priest, his shallow breathing allowing small noises of pain to escape him. He never would have guessed he would end up befriended to a priest.

“You gettin’ up?”

“Nope, goin’ to sit here and count dirt all day.”

Raphael rolled his eyes and reached down to help him up. He looped his arm about his shoulders and they walked toward the church steps, stepping over the dead men lying in the dirt.

The church door took a few tries to unlock, seeing as how the priest’s fingers stumbled over the key a few times, but once the door swung open and they stepped over the broken glass, Raphael felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The church was white washed on the inside, high ceiling and tall windows lining the walls. It was so open and yet it encompassed Raphael. Peace overwhelmed him and Raphael glanced at the Padre, expecting something more significant than the pained knot twisting his brow and feeling his fingers dig into his shoulder. He hadn’t felt comfort like this in a church since Texas. Seemed wrong for him to be here really, after all he had done.

Settling the priest in the closest pew, Raphael dropped to his good knee, poked and prodded at Donnie’s sides and pressed his palms against his chest, feeling along the edge of the priest’s plastron and brushing his knuckles against his scutes. “Where does it hurt, Padre? Ya ain’t makin’ that face just cause of my ugly mug.”

Donatello winced and shied away, batting his hands away from his sides as a flush and a sheen of sweat settled over his brow. He curled protectively into himself, his lip trembling. “Don’t do that. I don’t think my ribs are broken. They are most likely fractures, but I’ll be alright. I just need the doctor to bandage me up.” The priest refused to meet his gaze, leaning to the side as though ready to slide down the pew and away from him.

Raphael shook his head and forced the priest to look at him, gripping his jaw firmly. “Ya think yer so smart.” He considered his split lip, turning his face this way and that, studying his head wound and then the cuts and bruises around his eyes and chest; and all the while, Raphael’s eyes darted back to the Padre’s bottomless dark eyes every few seconds. He couldn’t figure the fellow out, he couldn’t judge if the look the priest was giving him was from his injuries or something entirely different.

He was no doc but his head wound looked nasty – all red and purple, puffy and still oozing blood. Raphael knew his solution to the problem would be a good bottle of whiskey and a few days passed out; he doubted Doc LH would agree.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Donatello asked and looked at him suddenly, his dark eyes penetrated him, looking past the scar on his face, past his impatience, his angry and sarcastic front, and his eyes saw into him, directly into Rapahel’s soul and they dug at the answers he was so unwilling to let him have.

Frowning and leaning back, his hand finally let the priest’s jaw go. Raphael snorted and hissed as he stood, brushing his hand briefly over his leg wound as if that would make the pain go away. “Don’t matter much. Missed the son-uv-a-bitch I was aimin’ at.”

The priest smiled then, tilting his head and his eyes shimmered. Raphael wasn’t clear if it was the head injury that made him seem so mild and sweet, or if the priest genuinely enjoyed messing with his head, but the priest leaned back in the pew, so much more relaxed, scraped up, bloodied, inappropriately dressed and looking all hell like he was inviting him in for a taste with the way his knee fell open and his fingers went from holding to stroking his ribs. “I’d say you did fairly well. Saved my life after all. Twice.”

Raphael snorted and turned away, thumping toward the door. “I’ll tell the Doc ta come see ya.”

“Thank you, Mr. Raphael.”

Turning and glancing at the priest, Raphael wrinkled his nose at the ‘Mr.’ and narrowed his eyes at the turtle, but Don closed his eyes and his brow knitted in pain, holding his side. Biting his tongue and turning away, Raphael lingered for only a moment before he exited through the door, leaving behind the peace of the church and the man sitting in the last row.

He made to leave then, but he stopped, the back of his neck prickling, a shiver rushing up his spine. He turned, glancing back at Donatello, and the priest’s captured him, holding him in place. The Padre’s brows knitted together, lips parted, and the man looked older suddenly; worn down and ready to give up as his breath caught in his throat and he stared only at him.

Raphael swallowed down the lump in his throat and the priest’s lower lip trembled as though all the words he wanted to say were stuck deep inside.

“Out with it, Padre.” Raphael barked and Don jumped, hissed, and held his ribs.

“My name’s Donatello.” He said, jaw hardening, his skin darkening. Raphael straightened his back and he just stood there on the porch of the church, unable to look away. The priest – Donatello – went from a light olive to sage before he turned away, facing the front of the church, his hand shakily making the sign of the cross and he bowed his head as though in prayer while his knee bounced.

“Got it, Padre. Donnie it is.” He bowed his head, swallowing hard as his throat locked up upon speaking the priest’s name. He limped away quickly, stomping down the steps, back into the real world that was harsh and hot, sand in the wind, sun unforgiving on his neck, and the dead ground under his feet stained red and ugly as hell.

Raphael kicked a living bandit in the ribs as he stirred – not in any attempt to wake him up, but simply because he was making some God-awful hiss in his attempt to breathe.

He didn’t get that man; no Padre he had ever known stared at him like that, as if asking him to stare back and see only him –if just for a moment. Didn’t matter. It was probably just the head injury making him look like that. So instead, Raphael focused on finding LH; it distracted him from the blush that had curled over the priest’s cheeks and blotched along his neck.

Though – Donnie sure as hell didn’t have a head injury yesterday.


	6. Saturday

Chapter 5

~~~~~*~~~~~

Saturday

 

“Who else is injured?” Donatello stared directly at Doctor Leatherhead, scared to know the answer.

LH frowned, holding the rough bandages against Donatello’s sides. The crocodile breathed deeply before he continued, filling the awkward silence by focusing on his word and tying a bandage around his chest and stepped away from his examination table in favor of getting fresh bandages – despite a stack sitting to Donatello’s left. LH didn't meet his eyes when he returned and cleaned a cut on his arm. “Three people died. One woman was raped. And twenty-or-so people injured and-or shot – yet living…” he paused, his eyes looking haunted, "for now." LH shook his head, looking to the side, his lip curling a bit with a crocodilian growl burbled from his chest. Breathing deep with that rattling hiss leading the way, he said, “and Michelangelo is so badly beaten he’s not going to be leaving his bed for a few weeks. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Swallowing hard, Donatello’s heart hammered in his chest, his body suddenly chill and an unpleasant coil in his gut wrenched into him. “LH, what about Sheriff Jones?” his voice barely made it past his lips. If Mikey was this badly injured, what about Casey? He had been the first to fight back against the gang leader.

The doctor sighed, shaking his head and turned away to fiddle with the bandages and wash basin, his large bulk shielding Donatello’s eyes from his busy hands. “Sheriff Jones was shot. He lost a great amount of blood. He’s in exam room 3. But I don’t know if he’ll-“

Donatello jumped from the table, his chest wrapped in bandages, still shirtless, and he hurried out of the room and into the large waiting room. He had never appreciated so much the oddity that was LH’s home, with the large open area as he did today. With the crowds of people inside, weeping, pacing, or waiting beside their loved one’s room, the space made it easy for him to weave through the town's people and across the hall to the room that had a large number '3' tacked to the wall. It was his work. LH had asked him years ago to make the numbers in iron so he could put them on the wall beside the rooms.

It didn’t matter that he hurt; it didn’t matter that his church had been robbed, he didn’t care anymore about any of it except that his friends had been hurt. He rushed into the room and Miss O’Neil’s head whipped around to stare at him from where she sat on the edge of Casey’s bed, dabbing at his brow with a wet cloth. She wiped at her cheeks quickly, looking back to the Sheriff, and she blinked her eyes rapidly, her fingers reaching out, shaky and small to push back some of his dark, damp hair from his brow.

Casey looked pale and frail in that bed. He didn’t look like himself. Donatello back peddled, his shell hitting the wall, his hand pressed to his belly and the other to his mouth to keep from vomiting.

“Father Donatello…” April whispered. He looked at her – any excuse to not stare at his friend’s grey face and slack jaw. Red eyes and tear streaked cheeks stared back at him, and he couldn’t move, he couldn’t do anything. He was no longer a priest – the one everyone looked too to give comfort and wisdom about God’s infinite plans being unfathomable to mortals. He was no longer the priest who encouraged prayer and faith to heal the sick and injured, and he was no longer a priest at all. Donatello was small and in pain on so many levels and he didn’t know if he could stay standing.

April appeared before him, taller than him – as most human women tended to be – and she cupped his bruised face, fresh tears streaking down her cheeks. “He saved me. Kept that man from-“her lip quivered and her eyes shimmered. Her red hair a mess, the bun half torn from her head, and a bruise discolored her jaw, and yet, she still looked lovely in her starched school marm's dress with the hint of white lace and a green broach at her throat. Donatello took her hands in his, gripping at her, twining his fingers through hers as he leaned into her palm, his face twisting.

“He’s my best friend…” he whispered, his throat choking his words to a halt and he swallowed hard.

She nodded and hiccupped and he pulled her to him, hugging her close as she cried on his shoulder.

He saw Casey behind her, laying there under a yellow patchwork quilt done up in whites and little splashes of blue flowers in the floral print. It was too bright for the situation. He hated that quilt. He hated this room.

What if Casey didn’t wake up?

What if Casey-

He bowed his head and hid his face against April’s red hair, clinging to her as he felt her tears cascade down onto his neck, a few of his own darkening the shoulder of her dress. They didn’t move for a long time, but eventually his knees felt ready to give out on him, and he was certain hers were as well by the way she gripped at him. Sniffling and taking a step to the side, he pulled her along, easing her to the edge of the bed by Casey’s side where he took the washrag she had in the wash basin. He rung it out, focusing on the warm water he twisted from the rough rag and snapped it open, mopping at her cheeks and the back of her neck.

“He’s an imbecile.” She choked out, green eyes emerald in grief, her fingers pressing to her lips.

“I know.”

“He’s uncultured and clumsy-“

“I know.”

“Father…” her voice broke and she gripped his hand, agony written there as she dug her nails into his palm and he relished the sting. “I love him.”

Donatello nodded, wiping at her tears with the rag. “I know. I think he knows that too.” She shook her head, a hiccup jolting her body. “I think he’s scared to tell you. In case you reject him.”

“It’s absurd.” She pulled out of his hands, turning back to Casey and taking his limp hand in hers, pressing his calloused knuckles to her cheek. “He’s such an idiot.”

“I know.” Donatello whispered, swaying where he stood, his heart hurting.

The floorboards creaked, the stale, blood stained air stirred and he felt a weight approach his side from the too bright doorway. “You shouldn’t be on your feet.” Doctor Leatherhead said, easing his arm around Donatello. The turtle half leaned, half fell against LH’s offered support, staring first at April and then Casey. “You need rest.”

“No!” Donatello jerked away, his hand slapping at the doctor’s. He didn’t know what he was angry at, but the anger felt better than the despair. He turned away, walking out of the office, past the folks with the least fatal wounds, out onto the porch, his feet marching him down the stairs before stumbling into the middle of the dry and hot main street. He shook, his stomach roiling, but he was free of that place, free of seeing his friend like that…

“Hey, Padre.”

Donatello blinked a few times, feeling Raphael’s hand land on his shoulder before it settled upon his shell. Solid and warm, Donatello fell against him and hid his face against his shoulder. Fingers dug into Raphael's shirt and he smelled good, like hard work, confidence, and the electric zing of a thunderstorm. He smelled like life. He smelled like a man. Yet the shoulder beneath him stiffened and he pulled back sharp, swaying as his head became dizzy.

"Easy there, Donnie." He didn't know Raphael could sound so quiet. His hand was back, on his shoulder, down his shell, and Donnie trembled. Raphael was alive. But his friends.... A soft grunt broke through and he felt the pressure on his shell pulling him along Main street, large hands urging him to follow. Raphael walked beside him, guiding him through the haze, down the street, passing the uninjured that began the clean up process. “Doc said ya need ta lay down.”

“I don’t want too.”

“Fair enough. But ya should probably sit down.”

“Don’t want to do that either.” Donatello snapped and Raphael pulled his hand away, raising it in supplication.

“Ain’t sayin’ ya have too. Doc just don’t want ya wanderin’ around all hurt.”

“LH isn’t here, is he? If he cares so much, why isn’t he the one stopping me?” he panted, his heart hammering.

Raphael scowled and shook his head suddenly, stopping dead in his tracks and leaving Donatello to turn to face him, his body feeling as though it was floating where he stood. “Don’t ya make this about you, Padre. Them folks that lost their kid; that fellow who died protectin’ his wife from them men; that grandmother who was shot; they’re the ones who need a priest ta remind them of things like Heaven and shit.” He narrowed his eyes and Donatello narrowed them right back, his hands trembling and his eyes heating with tears which he refused to let fall. Donatello held his ground, not moving a step back as Raphael crowded into his space, his face an inch from his, breath washing over him. “Ya goin’ ta be a man and do yer duty?”

“Don’t you dare imply I won’t.” Donatello shook, his head clearing. “But my friends are hurt, one is lying in there, possibly dying-“

“And you think he’s the only one?” the man bellowed and Donatello snapped his mouth shut, swallowing hard, his eyes wide and staring at Raphael’s throat because his amber eyes scalded him for his selfishness.

Perhaps he _had_ thought Casey and Michelangelo were the only ones. He looked away and stepped back from the larger man, but Raphael’s hand shot out, gripping his elbow, forcing him to stay put and look at only him. He couldn’t breathe. “No…” he exhaled.

“Everyone is sufferin’!” Raphael roared.

Donatello’s head spun and he wrenched himself away, stumbled, hissing as pain blossomed in his core and he held his bandaged ribs, grinding his teeth. “I don’t need a lecture from you!”

“Apparently ya do. You can’t just forget everythin’ just ‘cause you are in pain.”

“Why not?” Donnie turned, the tears lingering in the corner of his eyes, his fist shaking at his side. “Why can’t I be a man, just for one day? Why can’t I allow myself to grieve and feel the way everyone else does?” He waved his hand about the town, at the people and back to himself. “Why can’t I be selfish for just one day?” it slipped out of him, a lurching plea that he could never explain just how deep his question lay.

Raphael narrowed his eyes and he glared right back, grinding his teeth, and Donnie glared right back, his breath hitching. No, the man would not intimidate him. Not today. Raphael voice whispered, so direct and disconcerting after knowing him for several days, and his hushed tone made him strain his ears to catch his reply. “Because you are their priest.”

Cold water in December. It was the only way to describe the instant guilt and betrayal he felt splashed in the face. He looked down, he relented, backing away from the fight, conceding victory to the stranger. Raphael was right. He turned then, shuffling down the street.

“Padre…”

“I said my name is Donatello.” He said over his shoulder, spying Raphael shift weight from one foot to the other.

“Donnie. Where ya goin’?”

Donatello didn’t have time to feel pleased or embarrassed about the nickname. He gazed about his town, at the bullet holes littering building walls, a horse lying dead in the street, blood staining clothing, wood, and dirt. The hollow faces of survivors walked about, unseeing and pale, and the lingering smell of thick gun smoke coated every inch of the town. For the first time since he was a boy, the town looked ugly and hopeless, and Raphael’s words buzzed in his ears. “I’m going to go get cleaned up, dressed, and I’m going to visit my congregation.” and he left him, his feet dragging through the dust.

He shuffled into his home, momentary relief wrapping around him, then he got to work. Donatello heated some water, he washed and scrubbed himself. He chose his best suit and dressed. He perhaps didn’t look his absolute best, what with a bruise on his head, his eyes unfocused, his hands shaking – but compared to the rest of the townsfolk, he looked fairly well put together.

He prayed for all who asked, he prayed for those who didn’t, he spoke with every person and tried to comfort the injured. He held the Kirkham couple, wolf parents who had lost their son; only thirteen years old and so much braver than most of the grown men in town. He stood silently next to Tuckerman’s widow with his hand upon her shoulder as she held her husband’s cooling hand and stared at nothing with her cheek pressed to his chest. Donatello stood in the doorway of Angel’s grandmother’s home as she wailed in the corner, her grandmother gently set upon the table to view because the funerals for all three would be in an hour.

The burial lasted an hour. Tuckerman’s widow screamed as the first layer of dirt hit her husband’s coffin; Mrs. Kirkham fell against her husband and sobbed, her husband, a strong man who never showed anything less, cried for the first time to Donatello’s knowledge for his dead son; and Angel refused to go into the graveyard, standing outside of the group, watching from one of the few trees that circled the cemetery, wrapped in her grandmother’s shawl.

The setting sun burned the town, solid reds and oranges layered across the buildings, and Donatello sat in his church, first pew on the right, and stared at the floor. His fingers tapped now and then against his leg. The sun cast long shadows that filled his church with mystery and questions, just as they filled Donatello’s mind. The light caught on the metal of the cross, shining down on the priest; the reflection so bright compared to everything else.

Donatello inventoried all that had been taken and what little remained. The silver cup, the silk robes, his leather bound books on the priesthood; they were nothing compared to the lives that had been robbed today, but he took note of them, just like the souls. He wished he could do something more than just pray. Moments like these left the priest feeling useless.

Casey hadn’t improved, and Michelangelo at least had tried to smile when he saw him lying in bed with a face so black and blue he didn’t look the same. Nothing was the same, and yet night had come anyway. The sun was going to rise tomorrow, and a good night’s sleep wasn’t going to change anything. It would all be here again in the morning, staring them in the face, and refusing to leave them. It was ugly and brutal and yet the farmers would still be out tending their crops, the shops would have to open, and the mothers would still have to take their children to school where Miss O’Neil would be waiting because she had verbally refused to allow the younger children to feel the disruption of their lives.

A knock on the door behind him turned Donatello in his seat. Raphael stood in the doorway, all shadow and breadth, leaning against the jamb, head bowed. “Hey, Padre.”

“Donatello.” He automatically said, his voice weak even to his own ears.  He turned back toward the front of the church, considered getting them some light, but he realized the candlesticks had been stolen as well. So he sat very still, fingers interlocked between his knees.

Raphael’s boots were heavy as they thumped toward him, the sound of glass chinking together accompanying his arrival. Donatello shook, closed his eyes and gripped at his hands as the man sat down next to him. He wasn’t strong enough for this. Not today. He wanted to forget just as badly as every other person in town and here was his greatest temptation sitting next to him, taunting him with broad shoulders, his scarred cheek, and a wicked mouth. Yet, Raphael would beat him, he knew this. The man might even hang him outright if Donatello did what he desired; lean over, kiss him, pull him tightly up against his body and move, forgetting everything except memorizing how the man felt holding him tight.

Shaking his head and sliding an inch away from him, feeling Raphael’s eyes boring into his soul as he did so, he shook his head a second time, denying himself this man’s company. “You should leave.” Donatello’s voice trembled.

“Naw. Even a priest needs a drink on days like this.” Raphael shifted closer to him, his elbow nudging Donnie’s, and a cork popped, reverberating through the empty church.

“Doesn’t seem right in the house of the Lord.” Donatello turned his head, watching Raphael’s fingers play over the beer bottle’s neck.

“Never been one to worry about rules; Donnie.” He said, taking a swig from the brown bottle.

Donatello’s brows knotted together and his lower lip trembled, his heart fluttered and his pulse jumped through his veins as Raphael finally turned his head to look at him, eyes soft and probing, shoulder’s relaxed, and he looked so open, so willing. Donatello gripped his hands all the tighter, holding still and jerked his eyes away, staring at the cross upon the alter and gasping for a breath of air.

Raphael offered him the bottle, and he shook his head. The man leaned into him, raising a brow, holding the bottle out to him. Donatello’s skin prickled, a shiver running up his spine, his lips feeling dry and parting.

“Even a priest has a right ta forget a damn bad day.”

“I’ve never done this before.” His voice failed him, quivering along with his body.

Raphael leaned a bit closer, the bottle the only thing between them. “Ain’t nothin’ to it, Padre, just grab it and pray it goes down smooth.” Raphael’s eyes, golden and beautiful, caught the last of the sunset’s rays, seeming to glow from an inner power within. 

Nodding weakly and taking the bottle, Donatello’s fingers curled and brushed against his, their shoulders pressed together, their knees resting against the other's. Donatello touched the bottle’s cool lip to his and he took a drink, wrinkling his nose against the warm, bitter taste and coughed several times. Raphael chuckled, leaning back and Donatello handed it back, wiping his mouth. The second drink was easier, and by the third they passed the drink back and forth rhythmically, allowing the darkness to overtake them, hiding them, blinding sunset light fingering at them as the shadows of the church beams crept in, silent and enveloping, sliding over their bodies till even Raphael’s face was darkness and mystery.

Raphael slung his arm over the back of the bench, and Donatello felt the warmth of it tease his shell. The stranger took a deep drink of the beer before he offered it back only for the bottle to be empty. Donnie sighed and stared at it, fingering the glass. Leaning into the priest, his thigh pressing against his, Raphael smirked and wiggled a fresh second bottle of beer playfully before his nose. Donatello eyed it, his tongue fuzzy and he glared, though he snatched at it and took a long drink as his only reply.

“Donnie?”

"Where are you from?" Donatello asked, rolling the bottle between his palms.

"South."

 Raphael nicked the bottle from him and Donatello snorted, his mouth twisting with a smile. "That certainly was descriptive. Ashamed of being raised by coyotes and prairie dogs?" He snatched the bottle back, smirking at the bit of beer that dribbled down Raphael's chin.

 "Ain't a wise idea ta piss off a Texan." He wiped at his face.

"I'm trembling."

"Ya should be. I could pound yer ass into the ground." He raised a brow and Donnie raised one right back.

"No you wouldn't. Besides, I'd win."

Raphael's eyes lit up at the challenge and he leaned in, pointing the lip of the bottle in his face. "Like ta prove them words?"

Donatello narrowed his eyes, his heart racing. "Arm wrestle."

"Done."

They stood, Donatello swaying on his feet. They moved to the alter, elbows in place and free hands gripping the edge. "First one with their wrist on the table loses."

"If I win, yer buyin' me a drink." Raphael smirked.

"If I win, you donate another five dollars to the church."

"Deal."

They grasped hands, Raphael's hands larger, but no less calloused than his, and Donatello smiled, his eyes feeling puffy. "1," their fingers tightened, "2," Raphael tensed, but before the last number could be said, he jerked abruptly, slamming Donnie's wrist down upon the alter.

"Now wait a cotton pickin' minute!" Donatello snapped, and slapped his hands down. "That ain't fair! You are to wait till we count to three. No sooner, no later. Got it?"

Raphael chuckled, holding up his hands in surrender. "Fine then, ain't no foolin' ya, Donnie-boy." He flashed him a grin and Donatello felt his face flush, a spark of a thrill at the name. "Best two-out-a-three."

"Fine." Donnie leaned forward and prepared himself, grasping Raphael's hand, licking his lips.

This time, Raphael waited the duration of the countdown and Donatello pushed, grunting as Raphael's arm moved a fraction of an inch before it abruptly fell and he with it, pinning the man's hand under his chest.

"You cheated." Donatello glowered, lifting himself up. "You let me win."

"Now we're even. One more go." He wagged his hand, his stance shifting, his amber eyes blazing and Donatello huffed, once again getting into position; and it was like the clock stopped. This was it, the moment he would prove himself to the stranger. Why, he didn't know, but he nodded and they whispered the numbers, the air thickening, his skin tingling where they touched, and their eyes…. With a hiss of '3' they pushed, neither moved. Donnie grunted, breathing in deep and smooth even as he felt sweat gather on his brow. Raphael's teeth showed as he ground them together, snarling at him. Donatello's hold wavered, Raphael's eyes sparkled and he dove in, pushing hard, but the priest fought back and hissed, holding his position even if he was listing to the right.

Eyes locking, Donatello licked his lips - and Raphael's eyes flicked to his mouth. A smile twitched at his lips and Donatello shifted his grip pushing Raphael's hand toward the man's chest and with the leverage, he pushed. Surprise exploded across the wanderer’s face and Raphael's grip slackened. Donatello moved swift and strong and immediately swelled with pride as Raphael stared down at his hand only to find his wrist pinned to the alter, held there by Donatello’s.

"You shouldn't have thrown the last game." Donatello breathed and Raphael blinked at him. A laugh erupted from him and Donnie found himself joining him.

"Shit, Padre, you fooled me. Where'd ya learn to do that?" he straightened, rubbing his wrist.

"Blacksmith, remember? I just figured it out. I do the same with horses and mules, locking their hooves in place. They can't move too far when they have a hoof pinned up. It got me thinking about doing the same to people." He wiped his brow and stood back, his hands on his hips.

"Fairs fair." Raphael smirked and pulled five dollars from his pocket and slapped it to the table.

"Thank ya kindly." Donatello drawled, pocketing the money.

The two of them chuckled as they sat back in the front pew, slouching in the seat.

"These seats are damn uncomfortable." Raphael grunted, shifting.

"They have to be." Donnie peeked at him, his neck warm. "How else am I to keep the congregation awake?"

Raphael laughed and he reached down, opening another beer and flicking the cork behind the alter. Donatello glared, but instead of lecturing him on keeping his church clean, he snatched the bottle from him and took a drink. "How many of these did you bring?"

"Just the three." Raphael took the bottle back and swigged it. "So, Donnie, what made ya be a priest?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He asked, looking down at his hands and picking at a bit of dirt under his nails. "The women."

He rolled his eyes and Donnie smiled, shrugging his shoulder.

"Naw, seriously Donnie, why be a priest? Ya ain't like any of them others."

He looked away from Raphael, shrugging, then fidgeting, then sighing. The conviction and passion he held for his job still burned. Yet, the God honest truth of why he wore the collar towered in front of him like an ugly beast representing his deceit. The lie he told everyone who asked, townsfolk and strangers alike, lay dim at his core. Raphael sat beside him, easy and waiting, and he didn't want to lie, it hurt to think he would have too. "I...fell into it, really. I have always been devout and full of faith, but....some things happened and it was the only option I had left."

"Family?"

Donatello nodded then shook his head, vague and fleeting. "Something like that; mostly myself." He glanced at the beer and Raphael handed it over and he took another drink, the heady mix making him feel airy.

“Well that ain’t vague at all.”

“Fairs fair.” He parroted back and Rapahel snorted.

“Fine, Texas. Grew up down south near a little town so small it ain’t worth rememberin’. Hell, never even saw a train till I left home.” His fingers tapped the beer. “What about you?”

Donatello gripped his hands together, his tongue wetting his lips several times. “I…” He swallowed hard past the lump forming in his throat. “I had too.” He whispered. “I wanted to protect my soul.” And it was just too quiet after that. He counted his heartbeats, he focused on simply breathing, he ignored Raphael because he sat so close. 

The beer bottle appeared in front of him and Donatello took it, sipping at the contents.

“Got any siblings?” Raphael asked.

Donatello shook his head. “Only child. Though Michelangelo certainly feels like a brother. We…we grew up together, same with Casey.” His throat choked up and he wanted to say more, tell him about the swimming hole incident when Mikey jumped in trying to impress the girls and instead came out with a black eye, leaches down his shorts, and all the girls giggling as they ran away, leaving Donatello behind to drag his concussed friend back to town. He wanted to tell him about how Casey always knew just the right thing to say to make him laugh, or the way they would trade insults starting in alphabetical order. But he couldn’t, because instead, he saw them laying there in the hospital. He had forgotten about them, for those few precious moments he had forgotten about the ones he cared for and guilt flooded through him.

“They’ll be all right. Michelangelo was tryin’ ta flirt with one of them pretty nurses the Doc’s got. And the Sheriff, he’s too much of a stubborn bonehead ta give up so easy.”

“He won’t wake up.” Donatello whispered.

“Donnie,” Raphael forced his focus and Donatello stared right back, “yer a priest, ain’t ya? Then pray for him.”

He laughed, short, weak, but he nodded and dragged a hand down his face.

“Yer a good friend.” Raphael took the beer.

“Could be better.” He said and took it back, swallowing another large mouthful.

“Naw, yer the loyal kind.”

“Yes, but-“

Raphael reached for the bottle, his fingers touching his, his amber eyes still bright despite the multiple beers they had. “I could’a used a fella’ like you as a boy. Might of kept me in line.”

The beer dulled their cares, the shadows making secrets rise to mind and slither past loose tongues with lazy drawls.

“I’m here now.” The priest whispered, lips parting as he studied the side of Raphael’s face and felt his knee heavy against his.

The stranger smirked, looking to the nearly empty bottle, the last dregs sloshing about in a mixture of bubbles and foam. “Yeah, ya are.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s why yer a good friend.” He said, looking to him, his smile falling, his brow knotting together as he studied him back, his fingers tapping the bottle. “Donnie-“

Donatello took the bottle and finished off the last of the drink. It was too much, the feeling, this moment, whatever it was, it pressed down on his mind and heart and it terrified him. He stumbled over his words, grasping at anything to break the moment. “A real friend wouldn’t have allowed those men to hurt everyone.”

“That ain’t your fault.”

“I advised against anyone going out there to run them off. Only after they attacked the town the first time did Casey finally get a posse together and head out." He leand forward, setting the bottle down on the floor at his feet. "And, I don’t think the town can survive another funeral.” He whispered, bowing his head.

“Hun’s a mean ol’ son-uv-a-bitch, and he don’t care who he hurts.”

“They came out of nowhere.” Donatello said, rubbing at his eyes. “Just up and appeared in our town a few months back. They shot Mr. Jenkins; took his land. He was the first victim. They took his house and are holed up out there....” He peeked at Raphael, his vision going fuzzy at the corners and his hands suddenly friendlier than normal. He curled into him and gripped at his shirt, pressing his brow to his hands and he inhaled Raphael’s musky smell. “You can’t blame us for being worried when you came to town. We didn’t want anymore of those bandits ruining our lives.”

Raphael’s hand touched his shoulder, the side of his neck and he inhaled sharply, his eyes slipping shut. Solid heat radiated from the man’s palm and scorched through Donatello’s body, warming his blood and mixing with the beer. Heady and floating, Donatello hummed, leaning into him, his nose brushing Raphael’s collar bone.

“Donnie…”

Donatello felt the man stiffen under his hands and he jerked back, blinking slowly and trying to focus once more as the room spun. “Sorry.”

Raphael chuckled and stood then, not even swaying as he turned and offered his hand to Donatello. “Padre, ya can’t hold yer liquor. Let’s get ya home.”

Large and inviting, Raphael's hand before him, waiting for him to take it. Donatello swallowed, his fingers twitching upon his knees. “Maybe I should stay here…” he whispered, his eyes tracking the length of the man’s life line up along his exposed wrist, lingering for a moment upon the vein there, and then up to his eyes.

Raphael frowned, pulling his hand back and Donatello closed his eyes, bowing his head. He didn’t want to see him walk away.

“No way, Padre. You ain’t passin’ out here in the church. Let’s go.” Rough hands grabbed Donatello’s arm, dragging him off the pew.

Gasping and jerking away, his arm tingling where he had been touched, Donatello stumbled over his clumsy feet and away as fast as possible, his mind in a panic because he had to stay back, he wanted him. His very gut begged him to give into this stranger. Donnie’s hip rammed into the corner of the alter and pain shoot through him, waking him, leaving him to stare at the man with furrowed brows, mouth turned down in a frown, and standing so still before him and looking wonderful. His throat choked up and he wished Raphael was like him. For once, he asked for it in his heart as Raphael’s confused and concerned face stared back at him.

“Donnie? Y’all right?” He asked and reached for him.

He waved his hand away, bowing his head and his face twisted up. He could never allow himself.... He put the corner of the alter between himself and Raphael. Donnie looked away quickly and he searched the shadow filled church till his eyes held upon the cross above the alter, a hint of the moon’s light caressing up its side.

“What the hell, Donnie?”

“Just go, I can’t-“he swallowed hard, holding his injured hip.

“It ain’t your fault, what happened out there. You fought back. You were one of them people keepin’ everyone safe. You did your best.”

 He just didn’t get it, he could die if Raphael knew his lust, and yet, it made it that much more difficult, having him stand there, wonderful and dark, taunting him without realizing it. Donatello swayed, shaking his head, digging his fingers into his bruising side because the sharp stabs of pain were preferable to the ones lancing through his heart.

“Look, yer just drunk,” Raphael reached for him again, taking his elbow. “Let’s get ya home and-“

“No! I said no. I should stay here, I have to stay here.” He trembled, staring at the cross above him, gripping the alter for all his soul. “Here is good! Here is where sin will be held at bay and I won’t transgress, and you can go back to your room and maybe that nice girl will help you because she would certainly be much better at it. And you can drink with other’s who will be able to hold their liquor, and maybe play some cards and listen to music, and you can be yourself and I’ll stay here and I won’t do anything wrong.” He leaned upon the alter - the white linen cloth missing from the top because that too had been stolen. He knees grew weak and he collapsed in front of the alter, grasping his hands together, head bowed in supplication, trembling everywhere. It was all too much, the alcohol dulled his thoughts, Raphael’s touch blazed through his system, and his smell intoxicated him far more quickly than the beer had, and his voice – oh Lord, that voice! –the way he chuckled was like Sunday bells in his belly. Donatello whimpered and bowed his head, hands gripped desperately together, cheek resting against his bicep.

Raphael stood there like a volcano looming behind him, and he released a sob, fumbling over a prayer. It was too much, it was just too much for him to deal with. Everything, it crowded in on him, suffocating him, whispering things in his ears that left his throat choking.

Boots thumped upon the wood of the church and Donatello bit his lip and stopped his prayer, his heart pounding with every step that grew closer. “Don’t know what your deal is, Donnie, but ya don’t have ta torture yerself.”

He held his tongue, squeezed his eyes shut all the tighter, and tried to keep traitorous words from escaping and revealing everything.

Raphael turned then and Donatello listened to him leave, all swagger and whiskey in his steps. The door slammed shut and he jumped, pressing his brow to the wood of the alter and he gripped the sides desperately. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned; I desire him and I fear I am faltering….”


	7. Sunday

Chapter 6

~~~~~*~~~~~

Sunday

 

He just stood there, staring down at his notes, his throat bobbing behind the white collar with hollow dark eyes.

Raphael shifted in his seat. He was last in church, sitting in the pew closest to the door, but even he could see the circles under his eyes and the bloodshot lines circling his irises. He watched the townsfolk shift and glance at one another though they remained silent.

Coughing abruptly, Raphael pounded on his chest and raised his hand as he coughed a second time as the congregation turned and the Padre finally raised his eyes and caught his. A little smile touched his face and his shoulders relaxed.

“There’s not much for me to say today. I know you all want words of comfort, but I find there isn’t much I can offer you. The Lord though, he can help us all after our trial yesterday. He is the one we need to look to in order to overcome our difficulties. No matter what that may be; the loss we all experienced yesterday, sins we are not able to keep ourselves from, even our actions. We all will falter, we all experience pain and loss and…” he swallowed hard and gripped the pulpit, his dark eyes shining. “…and we will not heal as quickly as we would like. Some of us don’t wish to be healed after what has happened. Some of us, we are just trying to get through each day without succumbing to our darkest thoughts.” He looked down to his notes and fingered the pages.

Raphael shifted in his seat, glancing to the townspeople then back to Donatello, his hand gripping his knee.

“God would ask us to forgive – and that is the just thing to do.” The priest nodded, taking each person in turn, “but I cannot forgive just yet. We lost our friends, family, we lost so many to these men and I cannot forgive…yet. I will, because that is what we are asked, but not yet. Not yet.” He whispered.

His sermon roamed, moving from one topic to the other, covering every emotion Raphael knew that every member of the community was feeling at one point or another. Grief, loss, forgiveness, love, compassion, endurance and fortitude. Donatello ambled through the meeting, feeling out his congregation’s mood till he nodded and bowed his head.

“The only comfort we can genuinely feel as of right now in our community is knowing the comfort our departed have been received into. They are in heaven. Is there not a better place to be? I would be go now if I did not know there is still work for me to do here on earth. We will miss them, we will mourn them, but we should not long for them to have lingered here in pain if their call Home was to such a beautiful place.” He stopped then and stepped away from the podium and lingered then he nodded and stepped away. “Amen.”

Raphael remained seated, his eyes staring at the floor between his feet as the rest of the session finished. He didn't remember anything afterwards. He couldn't even recall if the sacrament was held before or after. He just knew at some point he had listened to the priest’s sermon and lost himself in the blood and gun smoke of home. His sisters’ screams, his Pap’s feet kicking, and his Ma’s absolute silence as she was dragged off behind the cold shed. His brothers and him bound hand and foot in the smokehouse. He and his elder brother kneeling at the crack in the wall, trying to see what they could while their younger brothers huddled behind them. At one point, they untied each other, trying not to look at their Pap’s boots just hanging there, and his older brother told them all to run for town. He shoved him hard, calling him a coward.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head and stood sharply, the church echoing. He choked on the pain in his leg and he grabbed the back of the pew in front of him, catching his fall.

“Are you alright, Raphael?”

He lifted his eyes and found the Padre standing across the church from him, holding several hymn books against his chest. The church was empty and Raphael clenched his fists, glancing behind him and then back to the priest. Back to Donatello and a pair of eyes he didn’t expect to feel guilt for their lack of judgment regarding him.

Donatello set the books down upon the alter and quietly moved down the few steps and down the aisle. He glided, not like some dream, but every step was purposeful and cautious and Raphael swallowed hard, gripping the beck of the pew.

“Would you,” the priest stopped two rows from him, placing a barrier between them. “Would you like me to walk you home?” he peeked at him and back to the wooden seats, his fingers smoothing away some dust from the backrest.

Raphael shook his head.

His eyes were so weary, and his olive skin paler than usual. Raph inched his way out from the pew and limped closer, noting the stiffening spine of the priest. His throat tightened and his words came out rough. “Just to the confessional.”

Donnie blinked at him, brows rising. It was too warm inside the church, even with the windows open and letting in a breeze. Raphael rubbed his sweaty neck then wiped it off on the backside of his pants. A smile flickered over the priest’s face and Raphael held his breath, watching Donnie transform from exhausted minister to an excited child receiving a new friend. He nodded and waved his hand, sliding easily beneath his arm and wrapping one around his waist, helping him limp up the aisle.

On the right hand side were simple boxes. Most other churches he had been too usually just had a section screened off to separate the priest and the penitent, but in Donatello’s church, it was a fully realized box, two rooms connected by a screen. Inside, he could kneel, but there was also a bench along the back wall for the elderly or – as in his case – infirmed.

Raphael sat heavily and watched the door close on him, leaving him in darkness. It was cooler in the confessional than he expected, but it also felt stifling without any air movement.

Donatello’s door opened then closed and the little door separating them opened – and Raphael listened to his heart beat in his ears.

Each thump against his breastbone pulsed through his body. The longer he sat still, the more he felt he could actually feel his blood surging through his veins. Even his bullet wound beat in time.

“I don’t know where ta start.” Raphael whispered and yet his voice reverberated around him.

“Take your time. We both are patience.”

He snorted, but his belly flipped. What the hell was he doing? “Last time I did this was about six years back.” He saw it, that day, in his head, his Ma in her blue dress and his sisters all wearing those matching flower dresses because his Pap got the whole forty yards of pattern on sale at the general store for three dollars.

“I’m angry at God.” Raphael shivered at the admission and he looked away, staring at the blank wall to his left. “Got angry ‘cause that son-uv-“he swallowed, “that man outside of town killed my family.”

He waited, his ears straining to hear through the grate, but nothing happened and Raphael ground his teeth. “Killed my Pappy by hangin’; and my Ma-“he shook his head. “Don’t rightly know what he did to my sisters, but my older brother told us ta run, and my baby brothers were shot down. I tried carryin’ the littlest one, but he didn’t make it. Died before I got ta town. They was gone when the Sherriff got there; took my sisters….shot my Ma…” his nails dug into his palms and trembled.

“Don’t rightly forgive the bast- the man who did that. Ain’t had much need to confess, seein’ as how I’m plannin’ on killin’ him.”

He waited, eyeing the grate, sweat gathering along his brow, waiting for those words to condemn him. But nothing. Silence.

“I don’t forgive God for it all. Them little boys who died, they was good boys, better than me. They deserved ta grow up. Why did I get away? I ain’t no good. I’m angry, I’m spiteful, I whore everywhere I go, I drink too much and I sin damn good- sorry.” His jaw clenched.

Fingers suddenly appeared at the grate, sliding through.

Raphael’s brow knotted and his eyes burned. He hissed, bowing his head and feeling his shoulder shake.

“Raph-“

He looked back to the grate, catching what little light filtered in through the air slats above the doors, and dark eyes glimmered back at him.

“I’m so sorry.”

He stood and pushed the door open with a jerk and he burst out of the confessional, limping heavy as he rushed from the church as if burned and unable to breathe.

The air of the street, though it relieved him of the claustrophobia, did little to relieve the pressure in his chest. He nearly hopped in his haste, ignoring the calls of the priest behind him. He entered the saloon and nodded to Michelangelo’s Sunday barkeep, and slid several cents his way and a shot of tequila was slid back. He downed it in one gulp and shook his head against the burn. The moment he felt one of the many silky women slide up to his side he grunted and turned with her, heading for the stairs.

As she cooed atop him and moved, making fake and obscene noises as she rocked the squeaky bed and her breasts bounced, Raphael closed his eyes and hissed; scared of what it meant that he thought of the reverent silence in that little booth as a pair of fingers reached for him and dark eyes stared back at him without any sign of judgment.


	8. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggery accusations and threats of violence. The time was different back then - it was dangerous to be what Donatello is back then.

Chapter 7

~~~~~*~~~~~

Monday

 

 

Morning birds chirped as the sun spread warmth upon the town, momentarily turning old wood into mahogany and Main Street into a yellow road of fortune. Roosters had long stopped crowing when the dogs took over and announced the arrival of farmers rolling in with fresh sewn crops to sell, and children made their way to school, fists clutching tight to their chalk and writing boards. He loved the mornings, the feeling it had as though the clock had slowed to a comforting hum. It was like one of them calms before the storm that he had read about in penny magazines. Nothing so proved God's love for mortal man than the glory of a sunrise. It cast light upon the darkness with beautiful sweeps of color across a reborn sky.

But today, as he stood there, staring down at Raphael as the man jerked his arm from him and spat into the dirt, the morning’s beauty was lost on him.

"Now, Raphael, I did promise Doc-"

"Damn it, Donnie, I can walk on my own!"

"Raph, you need to try and stay off your leg." Donatello took a step toward him, his stomach twisting at the heavy limp and hiss that escaped Raphael's throat. He took his arm and leaned into him, trying to get the man off his leg.

"I don't need a nursemaid!" Raphael shouted and threw himself away from his side, eyes wild and his breath heaving. Donatello didn’t know what this was, this shattered space between them. It was raw and Raphael’s eyes had the look of a spooked horse. With a grumble and a roll of his shoulders, Raphael turned and stumbled down the steps of the saloon, leaning heavy upon the railing. He hunched his shoulders, head bowed, and he limped across the street, a dark mass of muscle and attitude haloed in the sun's rays.

Donatello swallowed, arms folding over his belly, feeling the abandonment on the steps of the saloon porch. He felt heavy, conflicted. Maybe this was Raphael's way of pulling away. After yesterday's confessional and the lack of professionalism on his part….

"That man’s as stubborn as a mule with a hernia."

Turning sharp, Donatello found Michelangelo behind him, bruised and sore with a weak smile twisting up one side of his discolored face. He moved in a shambling shuffle from the bar to the front door, leaning against the door jamb, his hand clutching his ribs in a white knuckled hold.

“That man ain’t no good, Donnie.”

"What are you doing out of bed?” He crossed the porch instantly, reaching for his friend. The dimness in the saloon stole his sight and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. “LH will have your hide if he finds out you've been up and about."

"Bah," Mike waved his hand and his blue eyes seemed to laugh. The mood shifted instantly, feeling more like the carefree flow of Michelangelo’s personality. "If old Doc ain’t skinned Raphie-boy there yet, I'll be right as rain come check up time." Eye still swollen, his lip split like a canyon, and his body slumped in pain, Michelangelo certainly looked anything but all right. Ugly purple and yellow bruises along his jaw traveled down beneath his garish orange silk paisley pajamas that Michelangelo imported from old New York herself. He prided himself on his fashion sense and showed them off whenever he could. Which had led to plenty of morality lectures as the Priest was called in by concerned womenfolk who had stopped by the saloon to pick up a pint or two of cooking whiskey and been greeted by something else entirely.

Not to mention, Donatello had begun questioning his friend’s ability to see color – at all – as a reason for his horrendous taste. “Why are you out of bed again? You need to be resting-“

“I had ta check on my friend here. That stranger there, he’s a desperado if ever I saw one. He got nothin’ but bad news followin’ behind him and he ain’t no good for you to be following him around like some little lost pup neither.” He growled and it caught Donatello by surprise. Mikey, generally, loved everyone who wandered into town. To hear him voice even just a basic dislike was unsettling. “He ain’t goin’ to be sticking around. You know that, right? He’ll be leavin’ soon enough and you can’t go gettin’ attached ta him. He’ll just disappoint ya.”

It was disconcerting, hearing Michelangelo notice his attachment. With a calm smile, Donatello inhaled deeply, composing himself, and then he reached for his friend. He pulled his arm over his shoulders and wrapped one around his waist, encouraging the huskier turtle to rest his weight upon him as he turned him back towards his room. “Well you certainly are considerate.”

“He’s a thug-“

"Did you expect anything less? He's a stranger in a town that is broken." Donatello scolded, “But I disagree. I don’t think he’s bad news for us. I think he’s just lost his way and our little town just might put him back on the right path.”

“You really think that? Michelangelo’s voice was throaty, thick, and Donatello hesitated, his steps slow and cautious. Blue eyes stared into his for a brief moment and Donatello felt like Mikey was trying to impress upon him something important, something that was too sensitive to be communicated with words, and yet, too vague to be understood without them. “You goin’ to tell me you honestly think that stranger there is a good man?”

He nodded, his throat bobbing. “Yes, I do.”

Michelangelo looked away from him. Donatello took the opportunity to tug him along toward his room.

Whining like a girl, Mikey limped with him, his fingers digging into his shoulder. Donatello wound his way between the upturned chairs sitting atop the tables. The floorboards creaked and the dim room cloaked them the same way the velvet curtains were drawn closed on the upper level. The lamps were unlit, and the sun just barely seeped in through the rough woven curtains at the back of the room like tendrils of golden hair. So dark, so gloomy. Donatello understood then the appeal of the drinking and gambling.

"That reminds me," Mikey tilted his head, wincing, holding his ribs. With how heavy he leaned against him, standing and talking was not the better of the barman’s ideas thus far today. “That Raph fellow ain’t let a single one of them pretty nurses Doc’s got ta nurse him back to health! It’s ridiculous! That there is the only reason men risk their lives; so that pretty women dote and fuss on them.”

Don laughed, “What a travesty.”

“I would never turn those girls away! It is the highlight of my day when they stop by.” Mike chuckled, pressing his hand to his ribs with a wheeze.

“Simple pleasures are the sweetest after all.” Donatello sighed, gently kicking the door at the back of the saloon open and he helped Mikey into his small room. Fumbling with one hand while he helped his friend remain on his feet, Donatello drew back Mike’s Wild Bill Hitchcock themed bedding and eased him down to the edge.

“I think, those nurses are the best thing that ever happened ta this town. When LH showed up, I thought they were the reason you were constantly at his place – tryin’ ta chat up one of those dames and catch yourself a wife. Thought for sure you were goin’ ta give up the idea of taking on the Cloth for one of those pretty things. But you didn’t.”

“I certainly did not.” Donatello agreed and he moved about, sprucing up Mikey’s rather disarrayed room. He picked up several articles of clothing and folded them, setting them on his small dresser, and he left the bedroom for only a minute to return with a fresh glass of water. He placed it on the table beside his bed, wiping a bit of dust away. Michelangelo’s eyes dug into his skin, and Donatello stopped, catching those vivid blue eyes and he swallowed hard. The air thickened around them, rolling over his skin, making sweat gather along his neck and causing his heart to skip a beat. He didn't know why. It was like the air was crackling, waiting for something to explode, but it was so quiet, so calm. Donatello didn’t understand why he felt the need to turn and run.

“Don, why did you take on the Cloth?”

Donatello tried to smile, though it felt forced to him. “You know why.” He stooped to snatch a shirt from under Mikey’s bed, folding it absently.

“No, actually, I don’t. Even when we were kids, everyone in town knew ya wanted ta follow in your daddy’s footsteps and be a smithy. When ya announced you’d be takin’ on the Cloth, it surprised us. You were always makin’ crazy inventions and fixin’ things for people and improving how things are made. Not to mention your sharp mind there. As good as a Doctor as ya would have made, you’re a better smithy than any I’ve ever seen – and I’ve done a might bit of traveling;” his brows knotted, “but a priest?”

This he could handle. He had had this conversation many times with Casey. Sighing, Donatello helped him lay down within the plush and fancy Paris pillow that Mike claimed he got in some poker match on the Mississippi River on a real live steam boat. He tucked his friend in, noticing the sweat upon his brow. “What’s wrong, Mikey? Something is bothering you; I can see it. You might as well come out and say it.” Donatello sat on the edge of his bed, sinking down into the plush mattress as he faced him with hands folded in his lap.

Michelangelo suddenly fidgeted with the corner of his bedding and he shrugged, shifting with a wince.

“You need to rest. Don’t exert yourself like that.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, you could injure yourself further if you keep getting out of bed like that.”

Mikey smiled, rubbing his forehead. “God, you are so bossy. Ya know that? You like bein’ in control and bossing me around.”

Donatello rolled his eyes and stood, gathering up the mess of penny novels and magazines that littered his bedroom. “I do not. And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Then why the hell are ya here – sorry. You sure ain’t here ta wait on my bruised and sorry lookin’ ass. When you weren’t able ta boss that Raphael stranger around, you saw me and zeroed in on a victim too weak ta flee.”

It was like listening to a madman sometimes. With a snap of the magazines against Mike’s end table, Donatello snorted and shook his head, a laugh rising. “No, I most certainly didn’t zero in on a victim. You were in your doorway standing there and looking ready to fall over.” He organized the serial stories Mikey was obsessed with, all ranging from stories about Buffalo Bill to a new speculative genre of novels about traveling to the moon. “When I saw you, I saw a neighbor – and a friend – in need and I thought you could use a bit of my service.” He smiled and reached forward, shifting a few more items on the table, rearranging them. “I’m not controlling.

“Then what about that stranger?” his voice snapped.

Donatello sighed, patient and calm, “I’m just trying to be kind to a stranger, Michelangelo. He was in need and I am offering him aid. No matter how small the contribution, I want to help all of God’s Children in any way I can.”

“You’re the only one he lets take care of him. He’s tossed out every nurse who’s tried ta help him.”

“I just have a way with people.” He said, but when he looked back to his friend, his eyes shadowed, doubting, and he struggled to sit up. Something felt off but he couldn’t place it and the air crackled in the confines of the small room. He helped Michelangelo and fluffed his pillows.

“He don’t like nobody. You’re the only one he talks with.” Mikey continued, a petulance to his tone.

“I doubt that.” If it were true, then why did Raphael push him away so harshly? Donatello pulled his blankets up and patted his chest, and Michelangelo stiffened abruptly, pulling away from him.

The room sparked like a lightning storm brewing behind darkening clouds that swathed the room in the hazy stifle of the sun through the curtains. Donatello stepped back slow, his fingers trembling, unwilling to catch Mike’s eyes.

“Mikey?”

“I know...” his voice trailed off, weak and choked.

His heart stopped and ice rushed up his spine. “Know what?” He tried to smile, but it shrank away and he licked his lips, his mind completely silent. As his heart thumped, he realized he had remained too silent and he grabbed a fistful of his shirt against his belly.

Michelangelo stared at him in earnest, his hand gripping his blankets."You know that stranger ain't stickin' around, don't ya? He'll be off again before you know it and you'll have wasted your time nursing him back to health, right?"

Forcing a smile as his chest tightened, Donatello shrugged, swallowing hard. "I know, Michelangelo.” His voice felt like sun cracked desert. “I don't have any delusions about him settling down just because he happens to like my sermons." He tried for a joke.

“He’s no good.”

“Maybe, but it’s not my place to judge. He needs friends, Michelangelo, and an ear to listen. I’m willing and able to provide all of that to him, and I will continue to do what I can for him.” He said. His friend bowed his head and rubbed at his eyes, sweat gathering along his brow. Don shifted from foot to foot, glancing at the door, at the chance to escape the stuffy room. “Sorry; you really should be resting instead of listening to me prattle-”

“I’m just tryin’ ta look out for you. I don’t want ya to be hurt by this stranger.”

“That’s very kind of you, Michelangelo, but I’ll be all right. He’s not that bad, really. His bark is worse than his bite.”

Mike snorted, then he hissed and held his ribs. “He’s going to ruin you.”

Donatello flicked his eyes to his friend, his back stiffening.

“I don’t like that man, Donnie. He’s trouble-”

“He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, Mikey. You need to have a bit of compassion for him.” He said, trying so hard to keep his tone soft. The floorboards creaked under his weight and he approached him, setting the novels on the edge of the small end table. “The Lord asked us to help those in need. He’s needing us, Mikey. He needs some place to be, and, I feel we could give him that.”

It was odd, the way the room became smaller. Donatello saw Mikey’s eyes flicker, his brow twitch as he stared up at him, and he got the impress that Mikey didn’t want to be in the same room with him anymore than Donnie wanted to be. Yet he didn’t move, Mikey didn’t dismiss him, and the heaviness in that small, dust mote drifting room held him as fast to the floorboards are feathers in tar.

“Don-“Mike started, licking his lips. Another crackle in the air. “Do ya think Raphael might be…one of them funny types of men?”

“What do you mean?” Donatello tilted his head, clasping his hands in front of him.

“One of _them_ types.” Mike shifted, his eyes flickering to the right then back to him as he fidgeted with his bedding as sweat gathered along his brow. “Ya know,” he paused, waiting, staring at him as if he were looking through him. “Ya know, a man who…likes other men?”

Donatello stiffened, staring at him, his heart stopping. It hung in the air, his accusation, like burnt bacon grease from a stove. Even the sun seemed to hide behind an arrival of clouds. “That is a very serious accusation, Michelangelo. Such words are dangerous.” Donatello folded his arms, unfolded them and then rubbed a sweaty palm against his thigh, his heart skipping a beat and his face gathering heat. Did Mikey see something he didn’t? No, he couldn’t think that. “You do not know that. It’s dangerous to say such things. It would be best that you not speculate and spread rumors. It’s not very-“

“I _know_.” His voice pitched and the blow silenced him, startling both of them with how powerful his hissed response stopped them both cold. Donatello’s belly dropped. His eyes widened and he couldn’t breathe.

Donatello held perfectly still, words fleeing from his tongue. His mind drew blank and he stared at the floor, his entire body chilled to the bone. No….Mikey didn’t…He inhaled a strangled breathe, his heart pounded and he swallowed hard. “What?” He tried to laugh but it died before it left his lips and his voice splintered.

Mikey leaned forward, staring at him, digging into his soul, and Donatello gripped at his shirt against his belly, pressing his other hand against his thigh to keep it from shaking.

“I don’t…” Michelangelo shifted on the bed and shrugged a shoulder, his lip curling back in revulsion, “I don’t understand. I just don’t get how lookin’ at a man would be like lookin’ at a woman. It-“Michelangelo tried to find the words and shook his head. “I think it’s disgusting.”

Donatello nodded because it was all he could do. His throat tight and locked, mind reeling and unfocused, and his palms sweaty and white knuckled. He stared at the floor, body thrumming like the lightning storm had just struck him, heavy and thick with tempered power ready to burst between them. He knew in his gut at any moment he was to be struck. “Well,” he swallowed hard, choking, “temptation comes in all forms. Some-“

“I don’t get it.” Michelangelo broke in, his voice rigid. “Men are all hard and rough. Women are soft and pretty and, no matter how hard I try, I can’t understand why someone would want ta be that way.” Mikey’s voice trailed off and his head bowed as he tapped his thumbs together, a tendon along his jaw turning his skin pale and nearly white from the force he exerted to try and keep calm. 

Donnie stared at him and focused on breathing smooth, but when Mike looked up at him again, brow knotted and lips thin, Donatello felt the world open up below him and he fell, spiraling out of control and Mikey’s words following him as his they sliced at his soul. The room tilted and he could hear him, like in a dream – a nightmare.

“I realized what you were a few years ago.”

Donatello felt sick.

“This man came to town, a real tough sort and as nice as they come. The women were swooning over him, and then, there you were, trying your damndest to make friends with him. You spent all your time with him, even neglecting the smithy to be with him. You was always there, watchin’ him and smiling; and when he left, you were so quiet, spending all your time in church, praying.

“Then here comes Raphael, all swagger and whiskey and you again fall all over yourself to be near him. You ain’t even trying to just be friends, it’s that look you give him when he ain’t lookin’, like you’re starvin’ for a drink, but you’re holding yourself back because you know he’s poison.” Michelangelo licked his lips and Donatello choked as he inhaled, screaming on the inside. Darkness surrounded him and it hit him, all at once; it was too late. He hadn’t said anything, he had damned himself by not denying anything and thusly he damned his soul because it was too late. Mikey _knew_.

“I can tell it’s different this time.” Mikey whispered, the bed shifting a little. “You’re….in love.” His voice hit those words like an axe getting stuck in a tree trunk; heavy handed and uncomfortable. “You’re in love with Raphael, and….and it’s disgusting.”

His breath hitched and he couldn’t move because if he did, he would break. He saw it then, in his mind, as vivid as the colors of morning. Michelangelo screaming, pointing at him in the middle of the town and Casey – Good God, Casey dragging him in chains down the middle of the street, the towns’ people following close on his heels, stoning him, kicking him, cursing him.

They were going to hang him. Casey was going to kick the stool out from under his feet and he would see all the people he loved and cared for watch him kick and slowly die at the end of a rope.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his belly lurched and just like that, he leaned forward, a hand pressed to his mouth and Donatello choked as tears welled in his eyes and he shattered completely. Everything he had done, everything he loved was going to be ripped from him, all because he couldn’t be strong enough to stop himself from his ‘innocent’ indulgences. He couldn’t stop himself from falling in love. Good Lord, was he in love?

He had always thought he would never be found out. He was so careful, he never allowed his desires out because he had leaned so heavily upon the Lord. He didn't want to let his Father down. But if Mikey knew, who else knew?

“Don’t tell them.” He sobbed, his knees quaking and weak. A sound lurched from his chest and raked his throat raw and he couldn’t stop himself because it was over. He was over.

“I don’t understand it, Donnie. I just don’t.” Mikey said.

Donatello’s knees gave out and he controlled his fall to the floor, bowing his head and drawing himself in close to hide. He had nowhere else to go. He spun out of control, his vision black, his face wet, and he sobbed, rocking forward till his brow touched his knees. He couldn’t see past the pinprick of light with Michelangelo’s accusing face at the end. His lip trembled and he felt sweat slide down the back of his neck because it was coming, everything he had hidden would be shoved in his face, ugly and raw, reminding him he was the same.

A hand touched his shoulder and Donatello shied away, face twisting in pain with an animalistic cry escaping him. Michelangelo jerked his hand back and he felt so cold.

“But, I was thinkin’ of those sermons of yours and…” his voice hitched, rough and deepening.

“I’m sorry.” He cried, hot tears raining down atop his knees, “I’m sorry, don’t tell, please, don’t, I’m sorry…” he chanted past his rasping sobs. He sank into himself, feeling Michelangelo sinking down and kneeling beside him, setting a hand upon his quaking back

He was talking but Donnie couldn’t hear him – didn’t want to hear him if he were honest, because he felt it, in the tone, in the way he spit a word out. Mike’s fingers gripped his shoulder, hard, trying to get his attention, trying to force him to look at him; but he just couldn’t do it. The blood in his ears pounded and he pressed a hand to his mouth to keep himself from retching.

“Way I figure it, someone takin’ on the Cloth…well, they were tryin’ their hardest to stay good. Right?”

“I don’t want to die.” Donatello rocked, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll try harder. I’m sorry.” It became a mantra, spilling from him in fiery waves, his throat raw as he damned himself all the further, admitted his sins. He bowed his head, curled into himself and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Don…”

“Please don’t tell him.” He choked, fat tears racing down his cheeks. They splashed upon his knuckles. He would swing for this and his lip trembled as he shook his head, seeing Raphael in his mind, helping Casey tie the rope around his throat. He ached everywhere, like his body burned in agony.

“It’s all right, Donnie.” Mikey whispered.

Another hand on his shoulder, warm, light, and Donatello hiccupped on his tears.

“I don’t understand….your desires. But, Donnie, ya tell us week after week that it ain’t our place to judge.” He looked his way and Donatello shivered, his hand pressing tighter against his mouth. “I know what God expects of me and…I have faith.” He said, tilting his head, catching his eyes through the blur of tears. “I figure, what he expects of me is just to love you, right? Even if you-“He shifted, “make that choice, its yours ta make. I might not approve, but it ain’t my place ta say what is wrong or right. It doesn’t make ya stop bein’ Donnie, right?”

Terror clung in heavy droves, washing over him, drowning him like a cold sea, and he tried so hard to find his way back to the surface, to climb back toward the real world where everything made sense; but it was shattered, scattered like seeds in the wind as fall descended, and he didn’t know where he stood anymore. He didn’t know what Mikey thought of him anymore. “I’m sorry…” He hissed.

“You’re my friend.” Mike whispered, his brows knotting together – and it was then Don could see the concern, the worry for him. Michelangelo leaned forward and wrapped his arms about him, solid and tight and Donatello shook his head, hiccupping as he leaned into him, scared. Shame clouded the comfort he tried to gain from his friend….was Mike even his friend anymore? He ruined everything by allowing his fascination with Raphael to show, and he found himself angry at himself.

“Donnie…”

“I’m sorry…”

Michelangelo sighed and hugged him closer, his words slow in coming, forced out, but he said them, whispering against his ear like they were eight years old all over again with nothing in the world that could come between them. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Donatello hid his face against his friend’s chest, wrapping his arms around his middle and he let a wailing cry rack his body. He tried to stop, stifling his sobs against Mike’s chest, but the tears and the terror, the heartache and flood of relief flowed free and he grieved. He whispered to Mike in choked sobs everything he had ever done to try and stay on the path of righteousness as if Michelangelo was the vessel for his own personal confessional.

And Michelangelo told him it was all right.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

“Stay off your leg.” LH hissed at him, his chest rumbling with the command.

Raphael rolled his eyes and slid off the examination table, shuffling around till he could pull his pants back on and buckle them. “Right. Sure thing, Doc.” He grumbled and dressed, limping from the exam room as he fastened his gun about his hips.

“I’m serious, Mr. Raphael.” The doctor snarled, “You do as your told and don’t be making trouble!” his teeth clicked and snapped and Raphael raised a brow at the crocodile. He could hiss and spit all he wanted. He would do what he wanted and when he wanted. He exited the hospital, ignoring one of the Doc’s nurses as a little desk near the front door, trying to coo and simper at him as if he were a lame horse. He brushed her by without a glance, back stiffening as he felt the Doc stare at the back of his head, and he stepped out into the haze and heat of the sun, slamming the door behind him.

The town bustled as it awoke, men and women trotting to and fro on business, horses nickering to one another, dogs loping along in search of a porch to hide under before the full heat of the afternoon sun scorched the earth.

Ahead, further up the road and entering his blacksmith shop, he spotted the priest; and on the steps of the saloon, leaning heavily upon one of his workers, Michelangelo stood, hellfire in his eyes as he glared at him. Raphael raised a brow, limping toward him cautiously. Suddenly, his saddle bags were thrown at his feet, packed and secured, his coat, his rifle strapped down, his bandolier folded and sticking out of one of the bags. Raphael stared at them for a moment, eyes lifting to stare at the owner.

“You get the hell out of my town.” He hissed, shaking from anger. His employee, a young prairie dog he kept on to do the cleaning early in the mornings, licked his lips nervously, looking from one to the other then back.

Raphael rubbed at his neck and then glanced up at Michelangelo, a hand upon his hip. “What the hell are ya talkin’ about? Did Hun hit ya so hard your brain is mush?”

“You destroy everythin' ya touch. You take yer bags, yer horse, and you ride till the sun don’t shine. And don’t you be comin’ back. Till Casey is better, I’m in charge and you get the fuck off our land.”

“I ain’t leavin’ till the job is done!” Raphael roared, pointing in the direction of the farm that Hun had taken up residence on. “I won’t leave that mad man out there ta kill ya’ll! I’m goin’ ta stay here and fight whether ya like it or not.” He snarled, stooping down to pick up his saddle bags, stumbling as he lost his balance.

“You ain’t stayin’ here.”

“I paid for the week. You ain’t goin’ ta kick me out-“

Michelangelo growled and pushed away from his worker and turned, shuffling back into his saloon. He returned a second later, a handful of silver dollars thrown out from him and into the dirt at Raphael’s feet. “Now leave.”

Raphael stared blankly at the coins, feeling the townspeople moving in closer, crowding around, watching them both. He looked up, seeing the faces, all of them whispering and nodding, inching closer to Michelangelo’s side. The widow from the funeral, dressed all in black, had tears in her eyes.

"If he hadn't come to town, my Gramms would still be alive." The voice came from the back of the crowd, behind him. Raphael turned, catching the puffy eyes of Angel, her hair down and limp, a shawl wrapped about her shoulders and she looked more modest than he had seen on that first day he arrived. But the fury, the loathing...

Swallowing hard, Raphael adjusted his hat and stooped down to retrieve the refunded money. He pocketed them and slung the saddle bags over his shoulder and he turned, limping away from the saloon, his belly in a knot.

The crowd parted like Moses parting the Red Seas and Raphael bowed his head, shadowing his face from the people.

His teeth hurt where he ground them together, his knuckles white where he fisted them at his side, but mostly his gut hurt. He had gotten comfortable in just the few days he was here. It was stupid. He knew better.

He just had to get his horse and he’d ride out, camp out near the farm and try and get the son-uv-a-bitch later. As he approached the blacksmith’s shop, scuffing his boots in the road and kicking up dust, he wondered if the local grocer would even be willing to sell him travel rations before he left.

The Padre's door was so clean compared to the rest of the town. It was taken care of. A fresh coat of paint, well oiled hinges, and the frosted glass wiped and gleeming in the sun. He had to see the priest in order to get his horse, and he realized he didn’t want too, he just wanted to walk into the barn, leave his payment on the corner of his forge and just ride off. He hesitated, his pulse racing. The Padre - Donnie – he wouldn't kick him out if he wanted to say farewell. Right?

He knocked, hard, wetting his lips. This was bullshit is what it was. He had a job to do. He couldn't just leave the folk here to suffer. But what could he do? He scowled and shook his head, looking down at his boots in annoyance and turned, meaning to do just that and just walk into the barn around the side. He shouldn’t have been surprised; of course the town kicked him out. He killed people. He'd kick himself out too if he had the chance. The door opened and he instantly turned.

The priest stood there, his eyes red and tired looking, his skin pale and face drawn, and his dark eyes hollow.

Raphael trembled, gripping at the saddlebags. Donnie didn’t look like that this morning. He wet his lips, trying to talk, yet he found himself thirty. “They’re kickin’ me out of town.” He rasped, his mind twisting.

The Priest's face fell and he sighed, nodding as if he figured that would happen. He leaned against the door frame, folding his arms over his chest, small, defeated. Raphael swallowed, his chest tight and his shoulders hurt from how stiff he suddenly was.

He didn’t want to leave, and that realization scared him. He shifted in place, his leg hurting like a bitch and a headache forming at the base of his skull; but it was the sad expression on the Padre’s face that made him want to leave even less. He had a job to do. He had to finish what he started…and it was frightening that he wasn’t sure which mess he wanted round up and put away more – Hun, or this strangeness that had started between him and the Padre.

“You still got that job need doin’?” his voice rasped against his throat, quiet and worn, sounding like leather against wood.

Donatello stared for a moment, his lips parting, his fingers shaking, then he smiled a heartbreaking smile that kicked him in the teeth. Though he looked like had been crying recently, his smile illuminated him and made his dull eyes deepen and spark to life once again. “Yeah, I still have a job opening for a good and strong set of hands.” He whispered, voice thick and hushed.

He nodded, his throat bobbing and they stared at one another till Donatello moved aside, and Raphael stepped over the threshold and into the Padre’s home.


	9. Tuesday

Chapter 8

~~~~~*~~~~~

Tuesday

 

"The lumber is in the barn. I ordered it last week and Joel dropped it off just this morning. It’s perfect timing really.  Months ago-"

"Then why were ya beatin' my ass at poker for cash?" Raphael asked as he limped after the priest. He had swapped his holy clothes for some pratical ones that he held up with a modified gun belt that he had made to hold all his tools. It was genius, all the various pockets and loops to hang all the necessary things they would need for the roof. He almost wanted one just for the hell of it.

Donatello smiled, his eyes still red and tired looking, but he had cheered up some and the prospect of getting to work had certainly put him in a right pleasant mood.

"Because I had a generous loan given to the church to pay for the supplies. I was to pay back this loan when the church was able, and the Lord presented me with an opportunity to do just that."

"The bank actually gave ya a loan?" He asked, stepping into the barn after him, closing the door. He expected the wheels above to catch and stick, but the door slid easily shut and he slammed it from the clean glide.

"No." Donatello shook his head, bending down and lifting up a two-by-four slat and hefted it up on his shoulder.

"Well who then?" Raphael hefted one of his own up onto his shoulder and followed the priest, loading up a flatbed wagon with the lumber.

"A generous citizen of the town."

Raphael glared and Donatello simply smiled and walked past him, back to the pile. He had a little hop to his step and Raphael grumbled, his face heating with annoyance. "Oh yeah? Who's this 'generous citizen?'"

"Mr. Malone."

He rolled his eyes and hefted the timber. He found a rhythm with the Padre as they worked and sweat gathered quickly on them both. "Seems this Mr. Malone is an aweful righteous fella in town.”

The smile that staggered over Donnie's face brought a frown to Raphael's as dark and emotionally raw eyes glazed over and he grunted to hide it as he lifted another bit of wood.

"I'm supposin' he's generous for a reason-"

"No, he isn't. I think he's the one who needs the most help." He turned quickly, his pace increasing. By the time Raph had gotten three layed out on the flatbed, the priest had laid out seven.

He backed off every time he brought it up, like a dog tucking its tail. Talking religion wasn't getting the Padre to talk, it was shutting him up instead Raphael had found over the last few days of staying with the priest. With a huff and hard slap of wood, he turned on the man and scowled. "Well shit, Padre, if you ain't makin' me look like a damn lazy sack of bones. Slow your ass down or I'll force ya down." He glowered, arms folding over his chest.

Donatello blinked at him and Raphael resisted the urge to swallow as his belly flipped. Then Donnie laughed, full and loud and it made him light up like the sun. He decided then and there that that was how the Padre should always look, no more of this sad and polite man who had annoyed the hell out of him on that first day in town. Don was just as much a smartass as he was. They had danced around one another that yesterday, each trying too hard to be respectable, and trying too hard to not get in each others way. Donnie had given up his nice soft bed in favor of sleeping on a cot he kept under the stairs and argued that Raph’s body needed the comfort to heal. Raphael hadn't been pleased, but come night, Don had glared at him and ordered him to lie down and Raphael had found himself complying like a dog as the Padre grumbled, harrumphed, and gathered up a few items before he left the room.

It had been his first glimpse at the real Donatello, and Raphael was impressed. More than he was before.

Donatello placed his hands on his hips and smiled, back straight and he looked taller suddenly, like a weight had been lifted from him. "Well then, Mr. Raphael with no last name, get your backside in gear and try and keep up. I'm not going to slow down just because you are jealous a little old priest like me is whoopin' your ass."

Raphael smirked at that, the challenge made his blood sing. "I'll show you who's whoopin' whose ass." He took a step toward him and Donatello puffed up, eyes daring him to do it, his mouth quirked at the corner.

"Father Malone! Father! Come quick! It's Sheriff Jones!" A boy no more than ten years old, raced down the road and nearly tripped over his two oversized feet in his haste.

"Cody?" Donnie said and dropped their banter to jog out to meet him. Raphael saw the Padre's face pale.

The boy gasped for breath, eyes wild. "Doc sent me to get ya!"

Donatello turned and ran down the street - and for some reason, Raphael hadn't thought the priest would be able to run like that - all raw and open desperation.

He limped forward, rubbed at his thigh as he went, and the kid shot him a glare. He glared right back and if the kid were a dog, he would have had every hair on his body bristled up and a snarl on his lips like a rabid beast. "You should get out of town. My Pa says you're a migrant, and migrants ain't nothin' by trouble."

Raphael scowled, "And who's goin' ta help the Padre? Well? I don't see you droppin' by none to help. Don't think you should be runnin' your mouth over matters you don't know nothin’ about, kid."

"My mama says he's the best priest this town has ever had! Don't you go talkin' about him like you're friends or somethin' with him!"

"I'm more his friend than you are, squirt. Get out of here." He waved him off and the kid at least had the decency to jump, but then he huffed and marched off.

Raphael shook his head and turned, shuffling toward the hospital. By the time he got there, he was hot and sweatier than before, his leg hurt like a bitch and the towns people crowded outside murmured and hissed at his arrival. He ignored them and ground his teeth to walk up the stairs like normal and stepped into the hospital with a slam of the door to make his point. They could just kiss his ass for all he cared.

The clean smell washed over him. It didn't lessen the heat, but it did seem to absorb the animosity that waited for him. Though it did nothing to stiffle the sobs from that Miss O'Neal lady with her face burried in the sunshine yellow quilt on the bed.

"Out!" LH barked and waved him away from the Sherrif's room.

"Like hell. Ain't goin' nowhere, Doc."

The crocodile hissed in his chest, his parting his lips ever so faintly that his teeth caught the sunlight in a white threat before they snapped together, but he turned back to the bed and threw a bloodied bandage away from him and into a corner where a basket sat.

Inching into the room, Raphael spotted the Padre near the door, holding a bible with his finger hooked to keep his page. He prayed, a soft thing, lips moved and his words a whisper. Raphael reached out and squeezed Donnie's shoulder. His head snapped around, but his features softened, showing his distress from the man lying on the bed, so gaunt and weak.

A ragged gasp tore from the bed and the Doc's patient arched his back, twisting against the forceps that dug into his arm.

"Nurse!" LH barked and two of the three nurses in the room with him immediately took charge and forced the man down onto the bed, and one held his arm steady as he dug into the muscle, snorting in frustration till his eyes brightened and he drew the metal clamp free, a lump of twisted metal pulling free of Sheriff Jones' flesh. He dumped the bullet fragment into a dish with a clink. Just like that, Jones collapsed, panting, and LH proceeded to clean and wrap the wound.

"Doctor-"

"It's quite alright Miss O'Neal, I got the last of it. I'm certain this time. I believe that was why his fever has refused to break. I'm sorry to have put you through this. It was an error on my part-"

"April!" Jones screamed and jerked upright in bed, eyes wild and nearly white, pupils blown as he searched unseeing, hands searching.

"I'm right here." April shushed him and wiped at her wet cheeks as she reached for him. The moment she touched him, he grabbed at her, pulled her close, panted against her neck, and sweated, but he refused to let her go.

"April..." he chanted and pressed his brow to her shoulder.

LH allowed it, at least until the man's shoulder relaxed and Raphael felt his own relax in the process. He squeezed Donnie's shoulder and the Padre fell back against the wall and released a breath in a grand rush. Limping forward, Raphael helped LH extract Miss O'Neal from the man's grasp and he pushed the man to lie back down in his bed. LH glared at him, but didn't say anything as Jones began to thrash and it was through Raphael's physical strength alone that kept the man down and from flinging the nurses across the room.

"Sheriff!" He snapped and Jones halted, grabbing at Raphael's wrist.

"Keep them safe!" His voice rasped dry and rough like his face, stubbled over and white. "He tried…. That bastard, the big one. Don't let him." His nails dug into his wrist and Raphael squeezed his shoulder in return. The man relaxed minutely, eyes closed. "He tried..."

"Don't worry none, Sheriff, I got your people looked after real good."

"He tried to take her..." he whispered between just them. Raphael frowned, his brows drawn tight. What the hell...

"See if you can't feed him some broth," LH's voice broke into his thoughts as he spoke to his nurses, hands wiped clean on a towel. "Then give him a bit of ether and see if he can get some rest."

"Yes, Doctor." They all curtsied with a slight dip of their knees and then got to work; one carried the basket of bloodied bandages, another headed for the kitchens to wash up and make the soup, and the last politely shooed the audience away.

April refused to leave and Raphael smirked, liking the fiery redhead more and more. If he heard right, that there lady of the east just threatened to wring the neck of any nurse who tried to chase her off. He limped out with Donnie, an unspoken agreement to walk together as they exited the hospital.

The Padre smiled and nodded to the town, his hands shook ever so slightly but he never let it show in his voice. "He's all right – for now at least. He needs all your prayers. His fever still hasn't gone down; and Miss O’Neal, and Doctor Leatherhead, they both need your support, just as we all do during this hard time.” He said, jaw tight.

For a second there, Raphael could have sworn he saw the priest flinch.

“We need to focus on us as a whole. It will remind us that we are not alone.” He finished, and some of the people looked down and shuffled off, or they nodded, others still glared more at him than listen to the Padre.

Grunting, Raphael reached for the Padre and rubbed his neck as if he were a child. He tugged him after him as they pushed through the people and he focused on trying to walk as smoothly as possible with as slight of a limp as he could. It was strange, his leg hurt, but not enough to justify doing nothing and lazing about all day. It was why he forced his hand and made Donnie let him help move the lumber. In fact, as he thought of the work needed doing on the church; he picked up his pace and made it back to the barn to get right back to hauling the wood onto the flatbed.

Donatello joined him a few minutes later, and he watched him work. Arms folded over his stomach, dark eyes lingered on him, and he dwelled in his head as the present limped past him with load after load.

Dust and sweat coated Raphael’s skin in a muddy mess, and it felt good. He always had liked working his body. He had loved working the ranch back home, herding the cattle, hunting now and again for supper, hauling hay and driving the mules as they plowed the half acre his ma liked to keep on as a home garden. He used to chase down his brothers in the summer, pretending to be the big bad wolf; herding his sisters like a sheep dog when they strayed too far chasing fireflies; the whole lot giggling as he shooed them into the house for supper. He frowned and slapped the last of the timber down, his breathing labored, the air thin and dry. 

“Raph-“

“I should be focusin’ on killin’ that son-uv-a-bitch.”

Donatello remained silent and Raphael felt the unsaid words upon the back of his neck like the desert sun without a hat. He swallowed, cottonmouth and hard. But the Padre didn’t say anything, instead, Raphael listened to his quiet footsteps walk toward him, even, calm, like he was approaching a spooked horse – and he supposed wryly he was.

“I have a bath. You should wash up while I get supper fixed up.”

Raphael frowned, looking down at him from over his shoulder. Donnie wasn’t looking at him, instead he stared out at the late afternoon. It had to only be two, if he was guessing right by the sun. “Naw, we should get this across the street and piled against the church. Best ta get somethin’ done today than just twiddlin’ our thumbs like dumb shits for the rest of the evenin’.” That got a smile out of the priest.

“Swearing in front of a member of the clergy.” He shook his head, a twinkle in his eyes. “A complete and utter barbarian you are.”

“You got as much holy cloth on ya as a two cent whore.” Raphael shot back.

“At least I smell decent enough in my two cent clothing, sweat and all. You smell like the south end side of a northbound ass.”

Raphael laughed.

They hitched up a mule the priest kept and they guided the flatbed across the street, and moved it around the back of the church where a stoop would keep the wood dry in case of sudden rain, though Don was skeptical of that. It wasn’t the right time of the year for that, he said. Raphael took him he was full of shit. Donnie rolled his eyes.

“This one time, back when Michelangelo and I were just boys, Mikey got it in his head that we should hunt frogs down and eat their legs.”

“Frog legs are good.” Raphael nodded. He wouldn’t mind a stack of them in front of him now that he was thinking of it.

Donnie chuckled. “Well, the thing that Michelangelo forgot was that, one, it had been a dry summer and most of the ponds around here were drying up. The second, frogs can be tricky to catch.”

“Ain’t so bad, so long as yer quick.” He grunted and laid another board down.

“So we went traipsing down to the pond, and Casey wanted to come along, saying Mikey wouldn’t catch a damn thing.” Donatello chuckled and Raphael smirked, raising a brow. “We get there, and the hole is nothing but mud and a bit of water in the middle. That didn’t stop him though, he marched right in there, promptly got stuck up to his knees in mud, and told us it was all part of his plan. He caught a frog alright, but as he was struggling to get his feet out of the mud, the thing shat all over his hand and down his arm.”

Raphael barked out a laugh, a grin splitting his face wide. “Damn, he must have stunk ta high heaven and back again.”

Donatello grinned, “He did, and denied it all the way back home.”

They laughed about it for a few minutes, dragging piece after piece off the flatbed and stacking it against the foundation. The unloading seemed to take far less time than the loading did, and Raphael was just starting to wonder about climbing to the roof to look over the repairs when Donatello stopped him, hands on his hips, chest heaving from his work.

“May I ask you something?”

Raphael frowned, dropping the lumber and clapping his hands together, brushing them off. “Shoot, Padre, you got to ask first?” Donnie smiled and cocked his head, amusement on his face and Raphael smirked, “Donnie.” He corrected. “Don’t reckon I should be forgettin’ yer name this time ‘round.”

“Well, I was wondering how long you thought you might be staying."

Raphael leaned against the flatbed, arms folding across his chest as he considered the question. It didn't matter, right? But Donnie looked away and straightened one of the slats so it sat even with the rest in the pile, and when he stood straight again, his hands on his hips, he didn't look at him, just waiting. He was trying too damn hard to look casual and Raphael didn't know why it bugged him.

"Don't rightly know. Figured I'd stick around till I killed Hun." He shrugged, shifted and flinched as his leg gave a twitch of pain.

Donatello smiled, small, and he nodded, "I figured as much." He wiped his hands on the back of his pants, and smeared a bit of dirt across his backside. "I'll stock up on provisions then. Anything in particular you enjoy eating?"

"Pickled eggs." He answered immediately and Donnie wrinkled his nose, face twisted in disgust. Raphael just grinned and got a snort out of the Padre.

"Of course." He turned away, reaching for one of the last of the timber, and Raphael saw a smile.

He elbowed Donnie and chuckled and they finished their work, guiding the mule back with the flatbed to his barn and shop, unhitching the mule, and Donnie scooped up a curry brush. "You go ahead and wash up, I'll finish here and head on up after."

"Still can't fathom you havin' a real washtub." Raphael shook his head, his skin feeling tight from all the sweat.

"Comes with being friends with the local bar owner. Michelangelo gave it to me for ten dollars after he bought his girls a new one."

He barked out a laugh at that image. "A priest buyin’ the used bathtub of whores." He chuckled.

"They aren't whores...they are just working to support their families." Donatello said - and it took Raphael aback. He had never heard a priest speak like that. "I don't approve of their choice of employeement, but neither should I condemn them for their hard made decisions on survival. Some...they just don't have a choice.”

"What of that girl, Angel?"

Donnie smiled sadly, dust rising from the mule's coat as he brushed a little harder. "She made her choice simply because she rebelled. She isn't doing it out of desperation. Am I disappointed? Yes. I have told her as much, but I don't despise her. Some people, if given the choice, wouldn't do what they do if the world were different."

"Even you?"

He stopped brushing then and looked to Raphael, his mouth opened then closed, and then a nod. "Especially me." He whispered and went back to work his way down the mule's flanks. 

He didn't know what to say to that.

"You should go wash up. Off with you now." Donnie said and patted the mule's rump, keeping his hand on her as he moved around behind and to the other side.

Raphael turned and limped through the door connecting Don's home with his barn and up the stairs to his washroom. He started by heating water in a large pot as he stripped down and wadded up his clothes in a corner. His leg bled a bit - though he didn't give it any mind. He didn't know what to think of the Padre. One minute he had him figured, the next, he threw him for a loop. 

He didn't bother using the bathtub - it would have taken him most of the evening just to fill it – but he did use its plumping by standing in the tub and scrubbing himself down then dumping the pot of hot water over his head to rinse down. Dressed and clean for a change, he put on a second pot of water to heat and moved down the stairs, tossing a clean towel Donatello's way.

"Dinner-“

"Go wash up, Padre, I'll do it. You ain't goin' ta get away with it if I can't."

He heard him upstairs as he stirred the stew. It had sat simmering since this morning, thick and filled with potatoes and carrots, meat, and bits of everything that made a stew warm and filled a man up. Donnie had even gone and gotten fresh bread from the baker that morning. Raphael remembered how good his Ma's bread was, so he sliced it in thick slabs and set it close to the fire to warm, wrapped in a towel and turned occasionally.

Donatello was so quiet, even as he washed, and Raphael wondered at the tickle on the back of his neck. It was like the stew, he realized, the more he got to know the Padre, the more he thickened up, became real, became something other than a holy man.

Then the stairs creaked and he turned and he held still, taking in the loose and comfortable Donatello. White shirt, several buttons undone at the top, comfortable pants that hung on his hips, no socks. He smiled and moved in beside him and looked over the meal. Raphael swallowed and stepped aside only to have Donnie slide into his space once again as he reached for the pepper. They had used the same soap, but Donnie carried the scent better, he thought.

Raphael cleared his throat and opened several cupboards and drawers before he found the bowls and spoons and he laid the silverware out and lit the oil lamp Donnie had rigged up above his kitchen table to fill the room with the maximum amount of light. Donatello carried the pot to the table and set it in the middle, ladling up each bowl, and Raphael retrieved the bread, quick to slather it in butter so it melted.

Sitting across from each other, Raphael slurped his meal and Donnie dunked his bread in his stew, and he couldn't help but chuckle at the priest. It felt good and he lounged in the warmth of something so mundane and normal. He smiled and Donnie smiled back, and they talked.

  

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

Donatello tried not to stare. Raphael sat beside him on the hanging bench swing he had made years ago, using chains and heavy wood and an interlacing cut wood that he didn't need to use as many nails for. It turned out lovely, and he relaxed as he swayed on the swing, his belly full of the stew they had made and the warm bread and butter Raphael had gone about arranging. But the moment Raphael sat down, Donatello's shoulders stiffened and he held still, and he stared out at the fields behind his shop with the mountains rising to cut them off. The sky was dark, streaked with purples and royal blues with a hint of orange blushed red into the night sky as the sun faded behind the mountains and left a lingering glow like coal in a fire.

"Do you honestly believe the Sheriff will be all right?" Donatello asked.

"Yeah. That man got too much fire in his gut to die. Ain't got enough livin' done. Besides, he's got that pretty gal waitin’ for him." Raphael said and shifted on the bench, causing them to sway gently.

The rhythm calmed his nerves and Donatello's hands curled together, fisted into the prayful hands of a repentant. "I suppose so-"

"Ain't no supposin' there, Padre. You got to have faith, right? Then you got ta act like your faith ain't just hope, its reality." Raphael wagged a finger, face forward, and he stared into the night. 

Donnie glanced his way and took in the strength of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the tone of his body - and Donatello gripped his hands tighter together, throat aching.

"Figured a priest wouldn't have so much doubt."

"I'm still a man." Donnie whispered.

Raphael nodded and he turned to finally look at him. Eyes locked with his, amber gold and burning with the remainder light from the oil lamps. His heart skipped and Donatello forced his eyes to look down, his belly tingled. Then Raphael shifted and his arm lay across the back of the bench, and it just brushed his shoulders.

"That ya are, Padre." He agreed simply.

"I don't want you going after that man." It escaped his lips, a strangled sentence that he bit off at the end, but too late. He blushed and closed his eyes.

"Ain't nothin' to do but go after him." Raphael said, the swing of the bench picked up its pace.

"You could die..."

"Will eventually die some day, Padre. You know that."

"I just-"He stopped himself and exhaled, his throat tightening.

"What?"

Donatello swallowed and shook his head, unwrapped his fingers from one another and he gripped at the bench seat, and leaned forward to try and calm his heart. He was too invested in Raphael...

Raphael moved, shifted closer, and then his hand rested atop Donnie's.

In the shadowed night, the moon a sliver of silver and the noises of the nightlife awakening in the chorus of crickets and prairie owls, Donatello listened to his heartbeat as he turned and became engulfed in amber eyes. Eyes that asked him to tell him everything.

"What is it, Donnie?" he whispered.

Don bowed his head and trembled, forcing himself to breath. "I've become fond of you. I can't lose....a friend." He swallowed hard and forced the right words out that wouldn't betray him, that wouldn't condemn him.

Raphael laughed, soft, throaty, so rich and rough and Donatello closed his eyes at the wonder. Then Raphael's thumb brushed across his knuckles and he stood up sharp and made the bench swing from its chains.

“Don?”

"You're a good man-"

Raphael snorted. "No I ain't."

"Yes, you are." Donatello snapped, his voice hardened, though not because he needed Raphael to understand this fact, he needed Raphael to hear _him_ , to see _him_ , and he hugged his hand to his chest, cradling his fist that tingled from his touch. Donatello shook his head and fell into his eyes all over again as Raphael stared up at him in confusion. "Give yourself credit, Raph…" and his throat closed on him, his jaw tight before he felt capable to try and talk again. “You’re just lonely, like me, and you make me that much less lonesome. I don't want you to die because of a wicked man like him." He motioned with his chin toward Mr. Johnson's farm.

Raphael stood and loomed over him; a mountain that filled the space in front of him till he was all Donatello could see, touch, and smell. He basked in it, as well as felt the panic rise.

"How the hell can you be so alone with an entire town full of folk who love you?" Raphael’s voice growled, his breath hot against his cheek.

He didn't think Raphael could see him, he could barely see him, so he leaned into him, face twisted, his hand touched his chest and his head spun. "They repsect me. Love is entirely different." He whispered and jerked his hand back from Raphael's chest as moved around him, his feet stumbled in the gravel, and he hurried for the house.

If his desires weren't enough to damn him, the ache between his legs only further proved it to him. He was scared, he had wanted to make a point, instead, he had pushed at Raphael, pulled his strings so the man would resent him - with honesty.

Raphael grabbed his elbow and twisted him around. He pushed him against the wall, his hands slapped against the wall to either side of his head and he growled. They were so close together, their noses touched. "Gotta get one thing straight right now, Padre. Them people love you out there. Second, I ain't like them." He said, voice hard, deep, and all it did was make Donatello smile. No relief, only grief in his heart as Raphael continued. "I ain't one of yer flock, and I ain't one of these damn people. I make my own rules and I follow them."

The light from the window shone upon his face, yellow and otherworldly, and Donatello pressed his hand to Raphael’s heart all the tighter, because he could feel it coming.

"You ain't like any priest I've known. You're good, and you actually listen." He lifted a finger, pointing it at him, lips thin, jaw tight as the anger rose, then he hissed across his lips and grabbed the back of Donnie's neck and pressed his brow to his. "Damnit, Donnie-boy, what the hell? I've left people and places who welcomed me; you're the first who made me want ta stay.”

Donatello squeezed his eyes shut, his lips moved, words slipped past in a whisper as he prayed, and his hands curled in the front of Raphael's shirt. His tail throbbed with arousal that coursed through his body - but it was just lust and he pushed at it, forced it away because it was base and ugly, and Raphael was being honest with him. He couldn't debase his trust in him by being attracted to him.

Sexually. Mentally. Spiritually…

"I'm sorry. You deserve better than what you have gotten." Donatello carefully released his shirt, his face hot and his body quivered with his proximity.

Raphael tilted his head and inhaled deeply before he pulled back. He released him and left him alone and cold against the wall.

"You too, Donnie-boy." he rasped out, face twisted, "I just don't get it. What's wrong?"

He shook his head.

"You love it here, they love you-"

"Sometimes it's not enough." His voice broke on him and Donatello bowed his head, his blood cold.

Raphael stared and he could feel him hover above him like some Greek pantheon. Donatello pushed away from the wall and stepped back into his home, and he tried to leave his sins at the door.

 

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

Raphael laid in bed, in Donnie's bed to be precise. The Padre refused to allow a guest - and an injured one at that - to sleep on anything less than a bed. Donnie had explained all this to him the night before and had set up a cot downstairs for himself, telling him he would be fine and to rest. But now, laying here for the second night, he could still smell him everywhere. Raphael clenched at the bedding and swallowed a lump in his throat because it didn't seem right even as he enjoyed the comfort that was Donatello...

What was happening?

He reached down and gripped his swollen tail, grunting against the rush of pleasure and he closed his eyes to try and keep himself tucked and not drop into his hand - because if he did, what did that mean? He pinched the tip of his tail to force pain to ebb his sex drive. An arm thrown over his eyes, he dragged his hand away from his tail and scratched his nails across his plastron. He inhaled deeply of Donnie's calming scent, yet, terror began to gnaw at his gut an instant later.

What the hell was happening? Donnie’s scent?

His tail throbbed again.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

**Wednesday**

 

Donatello smiled as he knocked on the door leading to Casey’s room and he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw April sit back and Casey Jones offered a tired wave of his hand.

“The fever broke this morning.” April said, eyes dark and exhausted, but her smile never would have said otherwise. She gripped his hand with both of hers and held tight to his fingers with an air of desperation. He could relate. 

“I’m glad.” Donnie said and stepped through the threshold, pulling a secondary chair close to the bed to sit beside the couple. April smiled down at Casey and Donnie did the same. He hoped he would be the one to officiate over their wedding. He had seen little few as in love, nor as stubborn, as these two. “How are you feeling?”

“Great.” Casey grunted, trying to sit up, but his once again injured arm protested and April stood and urged him to lay back down with a firm hand that told him despite how sugary sweet her tone was, he had no choice. 

“I wish I could have done something for you-“

“Donnie,” Casey hissed, reached for him and grabbed at his hand. Donatello’s eyes widened and he leaned toward him. Sweat broke out over Casey’s brow and his body shook, his face pale as he motioned him closer. “They were tryin’ to take April.”

“Calm down, it’s all right.” Donatello assured and patted his hand.

“No.” Casey’s voice rasped, but it was sharp, annoyed even. “They were tryin’ to cart her off. That big man was trying to kidnap her.”

April looked away, her fingers twisted the rag she had picked up intending to wipe his brow.

Donatello watched April for any sign of protest, but when none came, he regarded his friend and leaned even closer so Casey could lay back down. “Why…”

He shook his head, his dark hair plastered to his skull, but he saw the suspicion in Casey’s eyes, just as he felt in his gut. “I don’t know. He just said she would be a good one.”

“What do you think-“

“You got to watch out for them, Don. Somethin’s goin’ on and I ain’t going to be able to stop it. Not like this.”

Nodding, Donatello gripped his friend’s hand all the tighter, pressing his lips against his own knuckles, “Of course, I promise. But, what can I do?”

Casey shook his head, eyes closed and his breathes came in short rasps. “I don’t know. Just don’t let them take April…” he swallowed on the last word and pulled his hand away from Don’s hold to reach for April. She leaned forward, wiped the sweat from his brow and neck, and she smoothed some of his long hair along his temple back all while she shushed him. “No one will take me, Casey. Don’t worry yourself.”

“Father…” Casey kissed April’s cheek, and Donatello could count on one hand how often he had seen Casey so tender. But as their eyes met from under April’s jaw, Donnie stiffened. “Bring me that damn stranger.”

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

He ignored him, head bowed, hammer raised high and then arching through the blue sky to crashed atop upon the poor, unsuspecting nail as he drove it into the wood in three powerful hits. Raphael crouched upon the roof, late afternoon already, and he had a good quarter of the work done. He had risen early, unable to sleep, and he tore the roof apart before the roosters even began to crow.

The old lumber and shingles lay scattered to one side of the church, tossed about like lifeless toys. Raphael grunted and waved Padre away as he climbed the ladder.

He couldn’t look at him, not if he wanted to keep his seat and not lose the nails he had perched against his knee. When Donnie opened his mouth, Raphael barked at him and glared as he demanded he leave him alone and go visit his Sheriff friend.

The Padre had smiled, small, eyes dull as he nodded and left him, barely a word otherwise. 

He hammered a little harder than needed at the embedded nail and snarled. What the fucking hell? He panted and leaned back on his heels when he bent the third nail in a row as his brows became wild and brutish, his face flushed in anger.

He hadn’t slept last night. His whole body grew cold and far too hot all at once at that admittance. He hadn’t slept because…

The ladder creaked and he spared a look its way and the Padre’s head appeared, followed by that damn white square at his throat. Donatello paused, studying him, brow raised, and then he leaned forward, elbow hooked over the top of the ladder comfortably. It was only then that Raphael realized he had worked his way up the roof another two rows of lumber and had only five shingles remaining. How late was it? The sun was high in the sky, it had to be ten at least.

“The Sheriff is awake.”

“Good for him.” He grumbled and moved up to the next layer of the roof to do what, he had no damn idea not that it mattered, it was one more inch away…

“He wants to see you.”

It hung unspoken between them, the uncertainty of why. His belly twisted at the thought of being run out of town by a man unable to leave his bed. Instead of grumbling and demanding answers or even flat out refusing like he wanted too, Raphael studied Donatello’s dark eyes and carefully masked face.

He crawled to the edge of the roof and followed the priest down the ladder. When they reached the hospital, he had second thoughts. If he avoided the Sheriff, then he wouldn’t be told to get his sorry ass out of town. He could spend one last night. He could finish his work for the Padre….for Donnie.

“This way.” Donatello whispered and his hand alighted across his elbow to guide him with the gentlest of touches. His cheeks warmed.

The bedroom felt different now that Casey was awake. It was like the entire room had awoken from a dream and the thick air of despair had dispersed. Casey sat up in bed, arms folded across his chest, and he looked as if it took everything he had just to sit upright.

“Sheriff.” He tipped his hat his way.

Casey narrowed his eyes, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “You know that bastard outside of town?”

Raphael copied him and folded his arms across his chest, defensive ire rose to the surface and he scowled, “Know enough about him to want ta shoot him between the eyes.”

“He as bad as he seems?”

“Worse.”

“You with him-“

“Don’t even imply I’m with that son-uv-a-bitch!” He snarled and advanced on the man. Donatello’s hand on his elbow stopped him before he reached out and grabbed his collar to shake some sense into the goddamn Sheriff.

Casey narrowed his eyes and Raphael curled his lip in disgust.

“Good. I’m Deputizing you.”

Raphael blinked, his anger gone and his mind hummed from abruptly being empty of all thought. “Huh?”

Casey lifted something off the table next to the wash basin and he tossed it to Raphael. “You’re a damn good shot and you know that bastard better than any of us. I ain’t worth a sack of beans laid up like I am. I need a man who can at least deal with the Marshalls when they get here and you are the only sorry son-of-a-bitch who fits the bill.”

He caught the star and stared at the piece of tin metal and wondered after it. It was so small, so flimsy, how could something like this hold so much power? Why the hell would someone give it to him?

Casey snorted, wiped at his brow, and looked shaky. “My gut tells me to run you off, but Father Malone here seems to like you, vouches for ya too. It’s his word that swayed me. Don’t you ruin him-“

“Why the hell would you give this to me?”

Casey frowned then and leaned his head back against the wall, his hair slick with sweat and sticking to his neck. “You goin’ ta let that man hurt my towns folk?”

“No.”

“You got the job.”

Raphael fingered the badge.

“You got a reason you ain’t thankin’ me yet?”

“Ya sure ya didn’t hit yer head after you was shot?”

Donatello chuckled at his side and Raphael focused on him, and he held to the familiar for a minute to ground in this disconcerting moment. Donnie smiled at him and his once dull eyes flickered ever so faintly with life. “I was thinking the same thing.” He explained, and Raphael smirked. 

A Deputy. He never thought himself the law type. He was usually the one who ran from the law. “You sure about this, Sheriff?”

“No, but I don’t want anyone else for the job. I may not like ya very much yet, but you got the eyes of a protector.” He forced his gaze and Raphael shifted from his good leg to his bad and back again. Trusted. He forgot what that felt like. “You goin’ ta give me reason to regret my choice, boy?”

“I ain’t your boy.” He grumped and looked to the badge then held it up and wagged it in the air. “But I ain’t one to piss on the good graces handed to me. I’ll keep your folk safe for ya, Sheriff, at least till ya get back on yer feet.”

Casey smiled and his eyes closed, a weight lifted from his shoulders and he nodded, sighing. “Good man.”

He got the keys to the jailhouse and the cabinet of rifles Casey kept in the jail. They spoke for some time, Casey informed him of the locals in town who did need watching, the triggers for others, or who to be gentle with. Raphael listened, carefully, a bit dizzy with disbelief.

When he got back to the church, he found Donatello up on the roof with another quarter of the room finished with his sleeves rolled up and his white square gone and throat exposed.

They stared. Raphael wasn’t sure why his gut told him to enjoy the view, the company, the calm and peace of the Padre while it lasted. He didn’t want to acknowledge anything as his belly curled in on itself.

He was a Deputy now.

Donnie was their priest.

But one thing occured to him as he fingered the badge in his hand, the keys heavy in his pocket - he could stay a while longer.

 

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

"That the town?" He asked, back straight in the saddle, eyes narrowed against the sun under the brim of his black and very clean hat. For a man who had been on the trail of two former bounty hunters - and then summoned at great haste to this town in need of immediate help - he looked as if he stepped fresh from a bathhouse. Clean shaven and prestine. Not many would call a Marshall a gentleman, but Marshall Bishop was as close to one as any.

He stared down at the little town nestled at the bottom of the mountains they stood atop along a ridgeline. It had taken longer than expected to make it through the pass, having to walk the horses and prisoners along the mountain trails and around fallen trees and overgrown paths. Disgraceful is what it was, a town not taking care of their trade route. No wonder they were cut off from the larger city just on the other side. He considered the distance and glanced at the sky with a squint of his eyes. They’d reach it tomorrow afternoon for certain.

His colleague spat black chewing tobacco to the ground, leaned forward in his saddle, lazy and bored, and then nodded. "Yep, that be her. Looks like a real shithole if I ever done saw one." He scowled.

Bishop twisted in the saddle to look his men over. He had over a dozen hardened men dedicated to upholding the law - even if that meant doing certain things that were deemed less than savory for the sake of the citizens. He nodded and one of his men jumped from his saddle. He held the rope to the two criminals they had caught on the way. Complete luck really, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouse.

"Ask the Injun-"

"He's not an Indian. He's from Japan." One of the prisoners spoke, sharp and bold, controlled even as they struggled against the ropes that bound them. Ragged, dusty, and stripped of his weapons and coat - and even his hat. The turtle glared at Bishop, his eyes an intense brown that blazed honey with the sun. He jerked on the ropes at just the right moment and made the Marshall who held him stumble, but he didn't try and run. He was just making a point.

He needed to watch this one, this Leonardo.

"It is alright, Leonardo-san." The other spoke, just as controled and poised, but with a heavy accent that told a story in itself of a journey across the great ocean and into the New World.

Some good it did him, Bishop thought as he raised a brow at the rabbit, just as dirty and worn looking, and his ears loose from the top knot they had captured him in, and yet, his weird Asian robes and oversized pants wrapped around his body looked just as perfect as the day he first saw them. He was a criminal now, no good to anyone, but Bishop didn't trust him or his swords. A knife fighter was just as good as any gunslinger in the right situation.

The rabbit lifted his chin and met Bishop's eyes before he spoke, "What is it you wished of me Bishop-san?" 

It rubbed him the wrong way is what it did; the way the Japanese man spoke, never showing any sign of discomfort or humiliation no matter how his men treated him. But he pushed his own annoyance aside. No time for that. "You and your compatriot were following this bandit?"

"Yes." They said together. The rabbit, Usagi – he thought his name was – bowed his head while Leonardo tried his best to follow his companion's lead and remain calm, but the moment he had learned they were also on the trail of this Hun, his temper had risen and he brooded in angry.

"What do you suppose he is doing in a town like this?"

"Nothin' good." Leo spoke and pushed back his shoulders, head held high. "Let us help you arrest him, and I'll hang myself willingly after the bastard is dead."

Bishop raised a brow and studied the turtle, and then he smirked. Vengeance. He could use that.

 


	10. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Marshal arrives - and the past comes with him.

Chapter 9

~~~~~*~~~~~

Wednesday

 

 

 

"Did you hear?" Buzz said with a rattle in his voice. He wiggled on his chair, feathers rustling, and his bald head catching the light. "Casey named a deputy for himself."

Michelangelo looked up from his magazine where he sat behind the bar. He wasn't working - at least, that's what he told the kid to tell the Doc if he walked in - so he ignored the next customer as he took up his cane and hobbled over. "Who is it?"

The buzzard’s feathers fluffed, and he leaned over the table, capturing his audience’s attention with a wagging finger. "None other than that stranger stayin' at Father Malone's place!" Buzz bobbed his red head. "I heard Sheriff Jones was impressed with his shootin', that I did! But a stranger takin’ a badge? I don’t get it! We tried to run him off, we did. Why in dicken’s would the Sheriff…”

Michelangelo’s stomach dropped and he felt a headache form at the back of his skull. He nodded, half listening. Buzz was as bad as the women folk’s gossip, yet, less reliable unless it concerned mayhem and possible pockets to pick. Mikey knew Donnie had let the stranger stay, he fumed about it, had given Don one of those amazingly scary Mikey glares when he had seen him standing across the way – but being a priest was one thing, and doing the right thing was typically what a priest did so he couldn’t blame him there. It was his job to look after Don. Except he hadn't expected Casey to keep the stranger here in an official manner.

He saw Don holding on by his teeth like a coyote scavenging scraps from wolves. If this Raphael fellow stuck around, he wasn't sure his friend would be able to keep his vows.

That realization worried him more than Don having an infatuation with the man. Did he think maybe the stranger was like Don? He didn't know how he felt about that. Donatello was a true blue friend, someone he could count on, someone who had proven himself over the years. He didn't know this stranger and he didn't like the idea he was spending time with Donnie. Or was it because he didn't like the idea of Donnie taking up with a man?

The very idea made his stomach turn. It was one thing for him to ignore Donnie’s fault, even another to ignore him and the stranger if they took up with each other. But what about the whole town?

He swallowed hard and limped away from Buzz and the rest of the men chattering about Casey and the new Deputy. He leaned upon his cane with each step, fisting the brass head tight.

Michelangelo wanted to try and be understanding, but it always came back to the same thing; a man. He just didn’t understand and that there lay the problem. He had promised Don he would still be his friend, that he would do all he could to do the Christian thing and love him. He supposed he just needed more time to get used to it.

"I can be Donnie's friend; don't got’s to be Raphael's." He grumbled. That could work, he decided.

As if right out of a plot from his dime novels, the duo walked in. Raphael headed straight for the bar while Don weaved his way and moved to his side, a smile crawling over his face. Mikey was struck by how happy he looked. He shifted uncomfortably and gripped his cane.

Donatello’s face contorted in concern. "Should you be walking?"

"I only get dizzy when I stand." Mikey waved him off with a grin though it faltered as his friend smiled back, not believing him in the least and opening his mouth to object. He reached out then and wrapped an arm around Don's shoulders and pulled him in close, rubbing his knuckles across the top of his head to force a laugh.

"Mikey!" Don shouted and struggled from his hold, rubbing his head. “What was that for?”

“Just sayin’ hello ta my good friend.” He tried to smile then hesitated. He knew in his gut he was failing as hard as a coon-hound hunting butterflies. “Let’s talk in the back.” He nodded to the side, his cane rapping on the wood as they moved to the storage room behind the bar.

Donatello shut the door, the noise of the room outside a hushed clamoring of bodies and laughter. The evening crowd was quick to fill his saloon with smoke and noise, and the girls above occasionally broke up the chatter with squeaky beds and moans. And there Father Malone stood, collar undone and looking for all the world like a normal man.

“The… cookin’ wine you ordered,” he said and handed the bottle over, eyes dropping from Donatello’s face.

“Thank you.” Don said and took it, staring down at the dark glass, cradling it against his belly.

Mikey hated that look on his friend’s face, like he knew something bad was going to happen. They were so silent for a time that with the faint sounds of boots scuffing the wood, and the lull in the noise around the bar, that when Donnie spoke again, Mikey jumped.

“Mike, what do you want to talk to me about?”

“Raphael.” He swallowed hard.

Donatello nodded and fingered the neck of the bottle, not looking at him, his shoulders stiff.

“Have you taken up with him? Are you-” his voice failed him and he nearly whispered the words.

Donatello’s face colored. “No,” he hissed, and his dark eyes locked with his.

Michelangelo’s gut flipped in on itself because he didn’t know if he believed him.

“No!” Don snapped, hand curling around the neck. “Not that its any of your business.”

Flood gates opened and anger replaced his nerves. Michelangelo pointed at the bar, scowling. “Then what the hell? I told him ta leave town, I told him ta leave us all alone; and you go and take him in? Are ya so fascinated by that man as to destroy everythin’ you have here? What about your vows? Hell, what about your business? You take up with him and all of that is gone.” He stabbed his cane at the floor and rattled the jars and bottles stalked around him on the shelves. He breathed hard, glaring at the recently scrubbed floor. He breathed deep, nostrils flared, and his fist thumped against his thigh. Then he saw Don’s face as if through a shattered pane of glass that he never knew had been separating their friendship.

Donatello swallowed, face drained of color. “That a promise?” He looked so small.

Michelangelo didn’t answer right away. Donnie nodded and pulled back, his shell colliding with the door of the storage room before he nodded again and turned.

“I told ya.” Mikey’s voice faltered, guilt taking hold. “I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it.”

Donnie glanced over to him, broken looking.

Michelangelo lifted a hand as if to stop him, but his tongue felt too big for his mouth, and his voice burned out.

“What are you trying to say? Are you telling me…”

“That Rapahel’s a mean son-of-a-bitch and you got him stayin’ with you. What happens if he does something that makes you-” He sounded like he had gargled whiskey and glass. He rubbed at his nose, fingers shaky, “What about Casey? He goes and Deputizes him like that? He’s a stranger, Don! We don’t know nothin’ about him!”

“You’re hurt that he didn’t ask you-“

He snorted, stabbing the floor again; and he hated that Donatello nailed it. He was mad about that. He’d be good at protecting the people. “What about, Mondo, then? He could have done it. Or what about Bart? That old wolf-hound would have done a good job.”

“Maybe.” Donnie whispered and hugged the bottle to his chest. He deflated right before his eyes. Don looked like he wanted to get as far from him as possible. He didn’t really blame him either. He was being a dick. He…

“Thank you.” Don said, turned, and hurried for the door.

“Don…”

He closed the door with a bang and Mikey sighed, bowing his head in the dim light of the storage room. What the hell was he supposed to do? He wanted to keep his friend safe, and he couldn’t do that if he had a walking, talking, sex-on-legs – at least, assuming, that’s how Don saw Raphael – miscreant wandering about his house and working him up. He rubbed at his face and limped for the door. He saw them, catching the tail-end of a conversation with his bartender selling Donnie; of all people; a couple bottles of beer while a fuming Raphael stood to the side glaring him down before following Don out.

“Jase, goin’ in ta lay down, keep watch. Call me if ya need me.” He said. He made his way to his bedroom where he collapsed in his chair with a groan. Shit. What the hell was he supposed to do? Donnie was in love, and he didn’t know if he could protect him.

 

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

Thursday

 

"You're shittin' me." Raphael shook his head and snapped his hammer down.

"Honest." Donnie grinned, laying another shingle down and tapping a nail in the upper corner. "I need more nails." He leaned over and Raphael handed him the sack.

"How the hell did ya get out of goin' ta jail?"

"I didn't. Casey was the one who kept me out. I tried to get him to arrest me as well because it hardly seemed fair that he arrest Mikey and not me, but he said being a pillar of the community meant I needed to remain innocent of crimes." He chuckled.

"You started a damn bar fight, and you got nothin' but a slap on the wrist?"

"Well, no, I slept outside the jail house for two weeks. I wanted to serve my time, just like Mikey."

"Why did Mike get arrested? Don't he own the place?"

"Well, not at the time - though he impressed Mr. Carter after that with how he handled himself and convinced him to let him buy the place…. after he gave him a black eye."

Raphael laughed, it was the funniest thing he had heard in a while - and just the idea of the Padre throwing the first punch...he sure wished he had seen that one.

The sun hung low in the sky, a heavy ball of orange and red as he saw them approach. Raphael sat up slowly, moving to his good knee then up to his feet, the sun at his back, he tipped his hat, and counted the riders. Fourteen men in saddle and two on foot. "Donnie, get yer rifle." He said and started for the ladder.

"What is it?" Donatello stood and looked out beyond the town. Their hazy images shifted with the heat of the sun, and Raphael blew a whistle at the Padre, making him jump.

"Get a move on, Padre!"

The two hurried across the street and retrieved gun and rifles. He checked his pistols, giving the barrel a quick spin to check to see if it would catch and then shoved a fistful of bullets into his pocket. He need to get his gear fixed up so he could carry it with him around town and not look like a damn bandit armed to the teeth.

Then he heard water splash.

Raphael scowled, turning on the priest. Donatello stood over the wash basin, scrubbing his face and hands. He took up precious time to change his damn shirt and put on that fucking white collar when he should have been getting his rifle. When he caught his scowl in the mirror, Donatello smirked right back. "Should be presentable to the new comers. You never know who might be amongst them." He said as he wiped his hands and face dry.

“Shit, Donnie, you didn’t clean up for me when I rode up.” He said, hands on hips.

“You didn’t seem the type to be impressed by that sort of thing.” He waved his question away and stepped in close suddenly.

Raphael stiffened, nostrils flared, and he stared down at Don. He had a few freckles on his nose. He hadn’t seen those earlier. He swallowed hard and smelled the fresh soap on his skin. He grew ridged as Donnie took up his new Sheriff’s badge from the table, and pinned it carefully to Raphael’s shirt. He couldn’t look away from his face; intent and open. Raphael inhaled slowly just as Donnie shifted the badge to make certain it sat straight against his breast.

“You should be presentable too.” Donnie said and smiled up at him. Raph realized his heart was beating faster. It unsettled him that his body was doing that around the priest. Donatello chuckled and took a step back and broke the bubble they were in. “Though you can get away with it, I, on the other hand, need to look my best.”

Raphael could breathe again and in response he rolled his eyes, his neck warm. He hefted his Winchester onto his shoulder, six shooter loaded, and resting heavy at his hip. “You’re just showin’ off to the new boys is what it is.” He grunted and finally started for the door, but the look of terror on Donatello’s face made him pause, his steps stumbling.

Donnie drew into himself, his face drained of color and he looked away. He fidgeted with his rifle. His fingers trembled whereas just a minute ago they were sure and steady as they pinned the badge to him. He licked at his lips repeatedly, released the barrel to check the shells inside, shoved a few more into his pocket on impulse and fumbled with his cuffs as an after thought.

What the hell? “Donnie?”

“Hmm?”

“You comin’?”

They stared for a moment, understanding started to gather in Don’s dark eyes and then he released a strained sigh and nodded. “Yes.” He forced the smile but it evened out as relief took center stage in his features. He snapped the rifle closed and just like that, they started for the other end of town. Donatello smiled, the same way he had when he had first rode into town, eyes alight with mischief and a pleased note to the way his steps bounced.

Raphael studied him from the corner of his eyes, his pulse quick in his throat. What the hell was with the Padre? What the hell was with himself while he was on the subject.

“You enjoy this.” He snapped.

“It’s not every day we get a herd of men stopping by our town. Maybe I’ll find myself a new best friend.”

“Then yer new friend will be shit out of luck. I ain’t movin’ out any time soon, Padre.”

“I wonder who would feed you if I kicked you out. Casey might, but really, you have a whole jail to yourself now. You could probably sleep in one of the cells, and perhaps you could find one of the older women in town to dote on you; though, you would have to hold your tongue and that seems just plum unlikely to ever happen.”

“You’d stay with you too if ya tried eatin’ my cookin’.” He grumped and Donatello laughed.

They drew a crowd as they walked, down the center of the main street, guns in hand, relaxed, joking with each other, and yet clearly on a mission.

The dozen plus men trotted toward them, dust kicking up from hooves, and Raphael caught snatches and glimpses of two men on foot that were tied and stripped of their gear being dragged behind the crew. He regarded the man in the lead, thin and tall though no softness remained in the cut of his cheeks and eyes, his jaw hard. The man lifted a hand, and his men stopped immediately. Raphael tipped his head back, hat pushed up his brow as he regarded him.

“Howdy.” Raphael raised his voice so all around him could hear.

Donatello smiled, “Hello.” He called in return, his rifle down and pointed at the ground, held slightly behind him.

The man nodded and swung out of his saddle, handing the reins to one of his men, who spat tobacco with a smirk. “Evenin’, Father,” He nodded, and then turned his attention to Raphael. He regarded him with narrowed eyes against the sun’s rays. “You the Sheriff?”

“Reckon I am.” Raphael said, hooking a thump in his belt. “What can I do ya for?”

“Name is Marshal John Bishop, came in regards to a request you made several weeks back about a criminal gang of men.” He stepped forward and removed his gloves, offering over a clean hand that Raphael raised a brow at. Though, when he took his hand and shook it, he felt the calluses on the palms and regarded the man with a critical eye. He didn’t look like much, yet he carried himself well. “You must be Sheriff Jones.”

“Pleasure, and name’s Raphael. Deputy. Jones is laid up because of them criminals. I take it you and your men be needin’ a cell for them two?” He motioned with his chin vaguely to the grouping of men. He had yet to actually see the prisoners.

“We would appreciate it, Deputy. That saloon stocked with rooms?” Bishop nodded to the building, and Raphael caught sight of the girls prettied up and leaning over the railing on the top floor. Feathered fans made their hair flutter as they batted their eyes and showed their knees.

“That it is. We’re all mighty happy you’re here, but you keep your men on a short leash, you hear me?” Raphael said. His gut told him there was at least one or two in the lot who were nothin’ but trouble.

Bishop nodded, raising a hand in agreement. “I’ll jail my own men if it comes to that, Deputy. I handle my own.”

“Fair enough.”

The man looked around slowly, his eyes sharp and quick. When he met his again, Raphael stopped himself from tightening his grip on his Winchester. “Seems there’s been some trouble recently.”

“Had our share. You plannin’ on takin’ on that son-uv-a-bitch now, or are you waitin’ till tomorrow?”

“A good night’s sleep would be appreciated.”

Raphael shrugged and Donatello stepped forward, hand out, “I’m Father Malone, we’re relieved you are here.”

“Father, can’t say yet if it’s a pleasure or not, but we’re here and we’ll do what we can. Were there many killed?”

Donatello frowned and nodded, and dropped his untouched hand slowly to his side. “We had three killed just four days ago. The bandits attacked and-“

“We’ll discuss everything with the Deputy and the Sheriff,” Bishop waved about the town, and Raphael saw it then, the way he looked down on them all. “We’ll deal with those criminals.”

“Well,” Donatello said, and Raphael caught his eyes. He smirked. The Padre was pissed off. Hell, he pitied Bishop now. If he had only glimpsed Donnie’s ire, Bishop was in a shit ton of trouble.

They dispersed without Raphael saying a word, Bishop stayed by his side as if for formalities sake and ignored Donatello after that. But it was when Bishop asked him to open the jail for the two approaching prisoners that Raphael stopped cold and sucked in a breath, fists clenched. The Marshals parted and the prisoners stepped forward, rough, hardened, one foreign and strange, the other, as familiar as his boots.

"Leo?"

Leonardo raised his eyes and his steps stopped short, shoulders stiff, nostrils flared, and his honeyed eyes wide and round.

He dropped the Winchester in the dirt and limped forward, his mouth dry, his entire body twisting in on itself as if he were going to be sick. But then he had him, his older brother - family he didn't know he had - in his hands. He gripped his shoulders, shook him, snarled in his face, teeth grinding - and then his throat closed up and he choked past the lump, husky and broken. “Leo…” he reared back and punched him.

His brother dropped backward, bound hands covering his coloring cheek, gaping.

"Damnit, Leo, why'd ya tell me ta run?" He shouted at him and moved over him, hissing more from dropping down to his good knee than at Leonardo. He grabbed the front of his shirt, punched him a second, and then a third time. “Where the hell have ya been?” His voice rose, higher till it nearly squeaked like a boy’s voice before it changed. It was just too much. Emotions flared and Raphael didn't know if he wanted to hug his older brother or keep punching him, or, the possibility of heading for the saloon and not being bothered about it till he woke up tomorrow morning in a blur seemed a far better option than the latter pair.

Leonardo's bound hands gripped his collar, and he made a sound in his throat. With a quick tug, he jerked Raphael back to reality. He stared at his brother, cheek puffed up and lip split, and Raphael bowed his head in shame, in relief, in agony, and Leo simply clung to him just as tight with his hands shaking.

"You're alive...you're alive." Leo whispered.

“So are you, you dumb shit.”

His brother snorted.

"Touching. I need the keys for the cells." Bishop's emotionless voice stabbed into him and Raphael pulled back from his brother and rounded on Bishop with a staggered step as he hauled himself to his feet and stomped up to the Marshal, nose nearly touched to nose.

"Go fuck yourself, Marshal. I ain't lockin' up fam-"

"Raphael." Donatello snapped, and Raphael nearly stumbled over his own feet as his eyes darted to the Padre, incredulous.

A single look and a lift of his chin, dark eyes narrowed and arms folded over his chest; and Donnie had him cowed. He spat on the ground, dug into his pocket to throw the keys at the priest. "I ain't lockin' up family!" He barked, and his hands shook.

It was so quiet in his head. He knew Bishop was talking, being a little shit and everything, but Donatello nodded faint and quick, his eyes soft and understanding. For the first time since Sunday in a dark room that swallowed his sins and secrets away, Raphael saw his fingers reaching for him through the cracks of society. He knew, he agreed, and he was trying to help.

The Padre stepped closer, measured steps, his eyes never left his, and he gently took his hand and pressed the keys back into his palm. "I think a little cooperation on all sides is needed right now." He whispered. His eyes flickered to Leonardo then back to him, small smile on his face. "Help the Marshal secure these gentlemen and then we can all sit down and discuss both sides of the situation. No need for tempers to get in the way, don't you agree, Raphael?"

His wrist tingled. An argument hovered on his tongue and he pressed it tight to the roof of his mouth. He fought his emotions, fought the sudden dizzy-spell as Donnie pushed his hand toward his chest, the keys a heavy burden. He wiped at his face with his free hand, exhaled in a shaky release, and he nodded. Damn Padre was right.

"Yeah, reckon yer thinkin' more clear than me. Don't think it right-"

"But that's not what is important right now." Donatello chastised.

Raphael narrowed his eyes as heat rose up his neck and into his face, but Donnie held up a hand and wagged a finger at him like some damn woman scolding a child.

"You need to take care of your guests, and we are in desperate need of the Marshal's help. Do your job and lock those men up. After you've got yourself together and aren't acting like a five year old throwing a tantrum, how about we talk with the Marshal to see what your brother has done to warrant being arrested. Right? Now go." He pointed toward the jail house and Raphael blinked. The Padre damn near sucker punched him. Shit.

Donatello narrowed his eyes and Raphael threw his hands up, "Shit! Fine! Damnit, Padre, yer a fuckin' rattler in the brush, ya know that? Strikin' fast where it hurts." He scowled but he didn't feel it. He bowed his head, and led the way. Two Marshals per prisoner, he had a moment of pride for that; like hell his brother would be a push over. Bishop followed - but not till he had given Donnie a good look over. Raphael had liked it better when the man ignored the Padre.

The dirt dragged his feet along. He did his best to not limp severely, but his leg burned and ached, and it felt like it would cramp soon if he weren't careful. The jail house sat at the center of town, across from the saloon, and ringed by businesses and homes. It was one of the oldest buildings; he could tell by the gray weathered wood and the way the stairs creaked as he walked up them.

"Raph..."

"Not now, Leo. Let's just do as the Padre said and get ya both behind bars so we can talk rational-like and shit." Raphael ground out. He didn't feel rational at all. He wanted to bust someone's head. The keys were heavy in his fingers as he twisted the iron and opened a cell. It felt cold in the jail, dim as it was with small windows and cold bars that ran through the center of the room from ceiling to floor to block off a row of cells.

"Separate cells please." Bishop's voice grated on his nerves and Raphael ground his teeth.

"Right."

His brother shuffled into the first cell, their eyes met, the same desire he had in his gut to ask what the hell had happened, ran across his brother’s expression. But Raphael coolly closed the door and locked it, gave it a shake and a glare at the Marshal so he would keep his damn mouth shut. The rabbit was next, and he stepped inside, head held high. Bishop untied them through the bars and handed the rope to his men. Bishop’s eyes lingered longer than necessary on Leo now, and Raphael bristled.

"I would like to speak with you at dinner tomorrow tonight, Deputy."

"Fine."

Bishop waited, and then raised a brow at him when he didn't say anything. "Where?" He drawled out.

"There's a diner one of the locals has attached ta his house just a little ways down the street next to the general store." He explained, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded the Marshal.

Bishop snorted and reached up to adjust his tie. "Charming." his men snorted in his stead and Raphael felt defensive. He shouldn't feel defensive for this town. They kicked him out. If it hadn't been for the Padre taking him in, he'd be chewing on grass like his horse and sleeping in the cold. He used to like that. But now....

"I was thinking someplace more private. I do possess sensitive material, I'm certain you don't want the locals to know about, concerning your brother..." He phrased it like a question, and he offered Raphael the hard choice of either having to explain away his lodgings, and he didn’t like the idea of explaining to this man he was staying with the Padre. Somehow, that felt like it would make things worse for Donnie, like the Marshal would use that against him somehow. He seemed the type to him, to manipulate where he could for his own gain. Bishop waited, brow raised.

"Deputy, I'll offer my home as a common meeting ground." Donatello said from behind and spooked Raphael out of the tension.

Donnie smiled at him - only at him. Raph swallowed that down, and nodded. "Thanks, Donnie-boy. Really appreciate it." He said and nudged him in the shoulder. "Sound fair enough, Marshal?"

"I suppose that will do. Tomorrow then." With that, he turned for the saloon with his men and Raphael clenched a fist.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

"What a pompous ass!" Donnie snarled. He slammed his rifle on the table harder than necessary.

"Well shoot, Padre. Tell me how ya really feel." Raphael stepped away from him, a twitch of amusement on his lips.

He turned, hell fire and piss in his eyes, and Raphael bit the inside of his cheek to keep from full on grinning like a Cheshire cat. “That man is trouble.”

“Hell, I’m trouble. You ain’t kicked me out on my ass yet, Pa-” he stopped short and coughed, averting his eyes from Don’s dark glower. “-Donnie.” He corrected, but he wouldn’t be cowed, not like that. Raphael pushed his shoulders back and hooked his thumbs in his belt, tipping his head back. “Look, Donnie, he’s an ass, I ain’t arguin’ that point. What ya got to understand is that there pompous ass has my brother and I ain’t too happy about that either.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if your brother didn’t do anything!” Donatello huffed and turned as his hands grabbed the first bit of silverware and fancy china. He began a vigorous scrub. “Probably arrested him because he looks like someone who did all the trouble causin’.” He grumbled.

“Can only hope so.” Raphael agreed. He watched Donnie for a minute, head bowed and shoulders hard at work to scrub away breakfast. Even with his shell – all smooth and unmarred – Don’s muscles coiled and bunched, once again proving to him the Padre was stronger than he let on.

That night, in the church, dark and hallowed as they passed the beer back and forth, fingers brushing and knees touching-

He cleared his throat, brows knotted up and he looked to his boots. His throat tightened, and Raphael didn’t know what to think anymore. Shit, was he focused on the Padre because he was the first person who actually dared try and be a friend? He didn’t know if he believed himself anymore when he told himself Donnie treated him proper – not just because it was his job as the town priest. It scared him to think he was coming to care for the priest like family; like he wanted to protect him the way he hadn’t protected his younger brothers. Like he was going to protect his big brother.

“Raphie?”

Raphael inhaled sharp and quick, and he met Donatello’s eyes. “Yeah?” he choked out, shuffling his feet.

The Padre stood defeated, hands wet up to his elbows, with brows knotted. "You realize you have to keep your brother in jail, right? Ain't no getting around that."

He snorted and took his hat off to run a hand over his head. "I ain't to keen on it. But I know that much." Raphael replaced the hat and hooked his thumbs in his belt, stomach rolling with the very idea of talking to Leo. Shit, when did he become such a coward?

"I'll make up a plate for him and his friend."

He jerked his eyes up and saw Donnie smile. The Padre turned, dried his hands, and then began pulling food from the cold box and warming up the last of the stew. He piled the bowls full and set aside a plate with buttered bread, apples and cheese, and a pitcher of water on the side.

Despite the roiling of his belly, Raphael ignored his nerves and walked with Donnie to the jail house, holding the jug of water and the tin cups, and he held the door for him as he entered with the food.

Leo sat up immediately and moved to the bars, his eyes locked on him. Raphael tensed, his back stiff and shoulders knotted, and he stared right back. The last time he saw his brother, he was running out at Hun’s men; a scrawny kid all knees and elbows. Now he looked hardened, land-toughened and fast. He might not be winning any arm wrestling matches, but what he did look like was lethal. He could see it in his eyes.

Raphael began to wonder just how accurate Bishop’s charges were.

He studied his brother and his gut twisted, because he was not the same. He didn’t look the same, the hardness in his eyes actually frightened him. He himself had gotten into enough scrapes to know he looked like shit compared to when he was a boy. But Leo’s eyes…

“I brought some food for you both. I am not going to entrust Marshal Bishop to care for either of you like proper men.” Donatello broke the unnerving air between them. He shuffled away from the bars, swallowing hard against the lump he found forming in his throat.

He didn’t watch too closely as Donnie dished the pair up passing their stew through the horizontal openings at the bottom. The foreigner was the first to give his thanks before they tucked into their meals, lips smacking in only the way a starving man’s does. They guzzled water in quick succession till they panted with relief, wiping chins and looking to the ceilings in feigned thanks. Once the frenzy of getting a full stomach and drinking their fill ebbed, Raphael allowed himself to look at Leonardo again, and he clenched his fists.

“What did ya do?” He asked, his voice far more raspy than he wanted.

Leo never looked away, jaw a tight line as he leaned forward on his knees, and Raphael again got that feeling that Leo was a tougher son-uv-a-bitch than even he thought of himself as. “Killed a man.”

Raphael folded his arms over his chest and raised a brow. “And you got caught? That there’s your first mistake.” He wanted to sound as if it meant nothing, like he heard men confess the same everyday, that he himself killed without remorse. But the truth was, he didn’t. He had killed to protect, to save his own hide from ruffians on the plains, but he hadn’t killed in cold blood. Never. Raphael had learned to be deadly because if he was deadlier than his enemies, that meant he was more likely to hit the men trying to hurt what was his. But Leo…it was there in his eyes.

“Who was it?” Raphael found himself asking, throat tight.

Leonardo did look away then, gripping his knees in a white knuckled grip. “A man… went by the name Shredder. But his true name was, Oroku Saki.”

“Why?”

Leo bowed his head, the harsh light of the sun hitting the side of his face, shadowing the side closest to Raphael. He looked so grim. Black and white. A man who knew right, but chose wrong. Raphael’s stomach flipped. Leo was the best of them all growing up. He felt bile rise in his throat, so he swallowed hard, shifting a step back.

The rabbit set his tin cup aside, the metal clinking against the bars of his cell. Raphael looked to him, studying the harried man, trying so hard to look prim and proper like one of them gentlemen types back east while wearing foreign style robes. “Perhaps it is best we rest. My friend and I have not had such a fine meal in the last few weeks, and I for one am succumbing to my fatigue. Would not a good nights rest help us all?” He raised red eyes and Raphael bristled.

Donatello’s hand touched his elbow, his arm warming as the priest pressed in close to him like melted butter on warm bread. “I reckon he’s right.” He whispered.

Raphael sighed and let his arms fall to his sides. He took his hat off, rubbing at his head, before he nodded and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Fine. Got better things ta do anyway than sit around here looking at their sorry asses.” He turned on his heel, striding out of the jail house and paced along the porch.

Punching something seemed like a great idea. Shooting something seemed even better. He ground his teeth, fists thumping against his thighs. Each hit growing harder and harder. His own brother didn’t want to talk. Fine with him. He wouldn’t talk either.

But that wasn’t true either. He wanted to get them a couple beers, sit down, and he wanted to talk to his brother. He desperately wanted to have that connection again; yet now…

The Padre stepped from the jail, juggling everything but the tin cups.

“Shit.” He reached for the dirty plates and took the empty pitcher. Donatello smiled at him and Raphael’s throat closed up. He stood there, just staring and it was like a punch to his gut.

The priest took his keys and locked the door, “Better safe than sorry. Don’t need that jackass thinking of doing anything rash.” He huffed, and Raphael could only nod, because the longer he stared at the man, the more painful the idea of talking became.

Donatello led the way back to the smithy, silence heavy but comfortable between them. The questions were there, questions, anger, and sympathy. It tugged at their clothes the way the wind tugged at tumbleweed before it uprooted the bush and sent it rolling. It built, thunderous and muggy. Yet, at the same time, neither of them seemed ready to let the lightning crack and for everything to spill out.

They washed the dishes, movements rhythmic as the sun finally disappeared, crickets chirping outside the open window, lanterns already lit and warm. The water ran between his fingers as he dried the dishes, his throat bobbing hard and heavy when Donnie’s fingers brushed his. He reached for the last plate, his fingers shaking; and just like that, the mood shattered and he bowed his head, gripping the edge of the counter. The plate clattered to the floor, washrag clawed in his hand.

“Raphie…” Donatello whispered, wet fingers touching his shoulder.

He turned, wrapping his arms about the Padre’s shoulders in a fierce grip, hiding his face against his neck. Donnie hesitated, but when he finally felt the priest’s hands touch his sides, slowly curling about his waist and returning the hug, the knot in Raphael’s throat unraveled and he snarled. “Leo got away.”

“Yes.” Donnie whispered into his shoulder.

“He’s alive.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s probably goin’ ta hang for this.”

He wanted the Padre to say something, anything, because even if he agreed, it would somehow confirm that he wasn’t wrong to have this lump in his chest. He wanted to entertain the possibility he was wrong. He wanted to pretend with all his might that he hadn’t just gotten someone back, only to stand there and watch him die all over again.

He didn’t cry, no matter how damp the Padre’s shirt got. Raphael clung to the man like he was some child all over again. It pissed him off, it made him grind his teeth. All it accomplished was him leaning in close and pressing his nose and mouth to Donnie’s cheek. He inhaled sharp.

Donnie stiffened under him, breath catching. Raphael pulled back with a jerk, rubbing at his face to orient himself, not because he needed to wipe moisture and sweat from his eyes. “I can’t…”

The Padre closed his eyes and brought trembling hands to his face, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing slim, but strong hands connected to just as strong forearms. Donatello huffed out a breath. Raphael watched his eyes close, the way his fingers hovered over his bobbing throat. His lower lip trembled. He exhaled in a shudder. Then Donnie tugged. A button popped open at the top of his black shirt, and Donnie pulled on the white collar, removing it from his throat, and out of his shirt. It hung limp and mundane from his fingers like a wilted flower.

Raphael watched the display with a twist of his gut. Something broke. He didn’t know what, but the room felt heavy in the same way a tornado readied itself.

When Donatello opened his eyes, they seemed to burn in their dark depths, reflecting the sun that had faded over the edge of the horizon. The priest studied him and Raphael wanted to punch something again because the pressure in his chest was suffocating him.

The Padre stepped forward and Raphael’s spine shot a lick of anticipation up his shell.

Donnie paused just inches in front of him, eyes finally lowering as he abandoned the collar on the table. The Padre took his hand, pressed his now free fingers to his chest and pushed him backwards. Raphael allowed it, stepping back with small steps till the back of his knees met with a chair. He sat, wondering up at the Padre, swallowing hard, skin humming.

With a grace he never would have associated with a blacksmith, Donnie dropped to his knees in front of him. He gripped their hands tight, pressing them to his cheek. He could still feel Donnie’s trembling, he saw the tears lining the man’s eyes. Raphael tried to breathe only to have it come out broken and guttural. He didn’t know he could sound like that.

“Raphie,” Donnie’s gentle voice made him bow forward.

He wanted to hide against him again. He wanted to run; wanted to fade away from this nightmare. He wanted to stay right where he was. It scared him, and Raphael had vowed to never be afraid.

The Padre’s thumbs stroked his knuckles. Raphael swallowed. He wanted to reach to him, tip his face up. When Donnie lifted his chin, the priest’s brow brushed over his lips. Raphael didn’t know when he had leaned forward so close.

“I don’t have any answers for you.” Donnie said. “You’re right, he will most likely hang. I can’t promise I can save him. I can’t give you false hope. I can’t change what man will do when they are the ones in control of the laws of the land; but I can promise if you have faith-”

“Don’t.” His voice hissed, and he yanked his hands from Donnie’s. Reaching for him, he gripped the back of his neck, and pressed a hand to his jaw. He pulled him forward and forced the man to sit up on his knees, faces nearly level, and Raphael pressed his brow to his. They breathed together, hot puffs of air, noses brushing. Raphael felt ready to break even though for the first time in years he felt whole, free of shadows. “I can’t listen ta what God will promise in the life-after. I barely can stand the here and now.” He swallowed hard. “I can’t lose him again.”

“I know…” Donnie’s grip tightened on his hand, the other taking hold of the front of his shirt. His fingers left a solid weight against his breastbone. A comfort spread, grounding him in the moment. The priest didn’t look like he could breathe, but Raphael finally could, and he took a second sharp inhale as he leaned forward, rocking Donnie back on his heels, forcing the man to grasp his shoulders to keep from falling, forcing the priest to stare at him in such a way that Raphael couldn’t convince himself to let the man go.

It was a fact out on the plains, up in the mountains, when he herded cattle or watched the sheep. He saw it, heard it even, from some of the older men still riding. They would sit too close, talk soft, they would touch…and it wasn’t as uncommon as the city-folk seemed to think. He had just never wanted to. Hadn’t thought much of it because after getting his ass beat for scowling the first time, Raphael discovered over time it wasn’t so strange, finding comfort in another, sharing something with another who understood. Having life touch back in a desperate bid to not feel so alone; it seemed beautiful.

He knew that Donnie understood with the way his lip trembled. He saw it in the way Donnie’s eyes stared back, so large and dark with mystery swimming beneath the ink and rum. For a second, that beat hung in the air, the same rhythm as their hearts. Raphael felt the way Donnie looked right then. His heart hammered. He wouldn’t pull away; his stomach churned.

It was like that time he had slammed his finger closed in a door. No matter how hard he tried to shout, to speak up, to holler or curse, nothing came out of his mouth. It was like a vice locked up his throat and his lungs couldn’t draw breath. Here and now, rooted in place, Raphael waited for Donnie’s reaction with a growing terror.

The Padre wasn’t a wrangler or a herder, he wasn’t a cowboy who traveled the plains - and most importantly, he was a man of God. Raphael’s fingers felt burnt against his skin. Still, he couldn’t pull away, and he found himself trailing a gentle thumb across the length of Donnie’s throat.

Donatello’s throat bobbed, fingers tightening around his shoulders. Finally, he returned his gaze, staring back at him, and Raphael’s breath caught in his chest. His eyes; so scared. He felt the man begin to tremble. He felt the Padre fumble internally because he felt it too with the way his tongue became too big for his mouth. Donnie knelt before him, like a supplicant. The same way he knelt before the alter that night with the moon on his shell. So close to each other and, yet, it seemed they were miles apart. So many contradictions, and it would never be enough to explain the heaviness between.

A night under the stars during a cattle run was the only thing Raphael could think of to explain it to himself. Identified, but in no way the answer to the question, as to if the Padre felt it too. And what did it mean that he felt it while safe within a town with women all around?

He swayed forward, mouth dry as he parted his lips. “Donnie…”

Donatello jerked back, his eyes tearing away, and before Raphael knew it he was on his feet and rushing to the door. “I…I need to check on the church.” He said, voice rough. Before he could say anything, the Padre closed the door behind him. Raphael fell back against the chair, head tipped back, and rubbed his face with work roughened hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, throat knotted again. What was he doing?

He sat there for some time, trying to breath, his mind racing. He certainly mangled everything. He stood abruptly, heart in his throat. He needed to make this right with the Padre. He made his way for the door ignoring hat and pistols hanging on the coat rack. He’d apologize, blame it on emotion or some shit. Blame his forwardness to needing to feel like he had family again. He could fix this.

It scared the living hell out of him as to what it actually meant to himself.

It scared the living hell out of him that he was going to lie to keep the Padre by his side.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

Donatello gasped for breathe, fingers fumbling with the key to the church. It took him five times of stabbing at the door before he got the key in and he rushed inside. He tripped over his feet, heart frantic, and he fell in this knees at the alter - and then nothing happened.

He didn’t burst into flame. He didn’t get struck down. The cross above the alter didn’t blaze with holy light. There wasn’t a voice that spoke to him, nor did an angel appear. Nothing.

A sob escaped, his mind a jumble of thoughts and emotions. “I don’t know what to do.” He choked out, fingers tripping over themselves to grasp his hands in prayer. “Lord, please. Please. Please.” The word fell from his lips, a song of agony chanted over and over.

He shook his head, remembering the intensity, the emotions, the desire to just…

Donatello inhaled sharply and his arms slid down the side of the alter. His eyes felt hot, but his gaze soft as he stared at the cross on the wall. “What would you tell me? That this was wrong?” He didn’t feel like a priest right now. He felt like a child, the world opening around him with questions and creative answers.

“I just don’t know what to do; I don’t know what to think anymore. I thought I understood my place in the world and how to live in it. But he’s changed everything, and I want to lean into him.” He pressed a hand to his heart as if to hold it back. “I’ve never had someone look at me like that.” His face twisted and his throat closed up. He swallowed hard, forcing the lump away. “I like it. I want t feel like this all the time. He makes me laugh, and smile. He makes me feel good; so good; about myself. And that’s ignoring the attraction.” He bit his lip and gripped the alter, head bowed, confessing to his Lord.

The words flowed like wine, for once he began he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Sodom and Gomorrah; they were forcing themselves on the men.” He whispered, mind’s eye turned inward. He remembered that story in Sunday school, listening to his teacher point to the page and explain that was why it was wrong; because they were sinning and forcing others to do what they wanted to do. That young man he had been, having already accepted his attraction to men, had felt a flutter of hope. If forcing another to accept was wrong, then what did it mean if they agreed? What if they were the same and willing? What if they fell in love the way a man and woman did? That was fine, right? But the teacher continued to talk and his hope died, a small ember snuffed out in the same way the memory of watching boots knock together had.

He hadn’t thought of that in years. Donatello talked and wondered if God was listening or had turned away from him. “I don’t want to force him. I feel too strongly for him for me to deny that its just a passing fancy. I…” he swallowed hard. “I admit it, I want companionship. I want more of what Mr. Raphael is giving me right now. Someone to talk with, laugh with, someone to argue over whose turn it is to wash and dry. I want…” he bowed his head, fingers falling away and gripping the side of the alter, “love…. But all I’ve known is that I can’t.”

The wind whispered through the cracks under the windowsills. It made the darkness within the church all the more empty. “I don’t feel…like its wrong for me to love and be loved.” The thought slipped out of him, heavy and dangerous. The unease in his chest grew, but so did his bravery. “Why is it wrong?” He asked the cross above him.

And warmth began to tickle his heart.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

“How is it wrong?”

Raphael heard him as he stepped past the open door, finding Donnie again on his knees, clinging to the alter like his life depended upon its solidness to hold him up and let him breathe.

“I realize I can’t be a priest if my sins take hold. I realize I will be damned…” he trailed off.

Raphael took a another step closer, holding his breath and stepping light so as to not alert the priest. Tension fell away from Donatello as if a weight lifted from his shoulders and he saw him raise his head, looking not to the cross but to the side, to the podium he preached at week after week. His head tilted and he barely saw the side of his face, but the priest inhaled shaky, rubbing at his chest. Confusion, awe, fear, even a hint of joy, it flashed over his features like the striking of a match.

“I won’t be damned…” his statement sounded more like a hushed question. He looked to the cross and Raphael placed a hand on the back of a pew, easing the weight off his leg while trying hard not to make a sound.

“I never…. Love isn’t wrong. You tell us often enough to love; written right there in the Bible. To reject hatred and baser emotions.” He went silent and Raphael could tell just by the set of his shoulders that his mind was thinking, off at a sprint and seeing twenty steps ahead while at the same time analyzing every step in-between just in case. “Lust is a sin, but not love. I don’t think I could allow lust to drive me to make a decision. It… it doesn’t feel wrong. I know what’s written, and…” he shook his head, struggling with his words.

Raphael wanted to pull him away from the alter and tell him that was enough. Donnie was a priest though. It was what he did; pray when it was the hardest to find the answers to make everything easier.

“Lying is a sin… falsifying oneself. I’ve lived so I wouldn’t be tempted so I wouldn’t have to lie about my actions; but its not about temptation anymore. It’s not about being tempted to fall from my beliefs and moralities. I feel like admitting this will allow me to hold myself higher, to honor…” he shook his head and Raphael gripped the pew all the tighter.

He sat up slowly, shaky hands clasping. “I would hang… admitting I could love a man.”

Raphael’s throat tightened.

“I would hang, be shot, beaten, dragged behind horses, drowned…” he shuddered, voice breaking. Raphael knew all that too. Men had died; arrested and sentenced to death for their immoral ways. By the law, he should be arresting the priest just for admitting it.

But he wouldn’t.

“Father, I… I lust… after a man, but-”

“Well ain’t that somethin’ else, Father.”

He knew that voice. Hun. Raphael jerked and spun on his heel, only to have a rifle butt fill his vision before it smashed into the side of his head. He stumbled as blackness overtook him with pinpricks of light. He fell, tripping against a pew, his leg screaming. The red hot pain did almost as much damage as the hit did in sending him down to the floor, cheek against the rough wood.

A heavy foot stomped down on his shell and he grunted, wincing as he was hit again and again. The blows weren’t hard enough to crack his shell - yet. But if Hun kept up his pace, it wouldn’t be good.

“You two, get the sodomite.”

Heavy boots walked past, and Raphael grunted, trying to get to his knees only to be kicked back down onto his plastron.

The blows stopped eventually, and Raphael forced his head up, looking toward Donnie. He was between two men, both at either elbow with his hands tied behind his back. Swollen black eye and split lip said it all. The priest’s skin looked pale, his eyes wide. They stared at each other as a quaking ran through his body. Terror. No other way of describing the look on Donnie’s face came to mind. And Raphael knew, in the foggy parts of his brain that still worked, that he was scared for Donnie too. He needed to get up. He needed to protect him. He snarled, pushing at the floor, his body betraying him at the lack of coordination. Not again. He wouldn’t let Hun take someone else from him.

Hun kicked him in the side - right in the fleshy lining between shell and plastron. Wind knocked out of him, Raphael gagged and collapsed, hugging his side as his mouth worked uselessly.

“I can use you, Father. Tearing your town apart will be so easy.”

The smirk in his voice forced Raphael to move, forced him to reach out and grab the bastard’s ankle in a valiant and stupid move.

“Kid, finish him.” Hun scowled and shook him off his boot like cow shit.

A boy, no more than fifteen, moved over him looking scared and uncertain.

Turtle luck true to form, Raphael could do nothing. Not a single thing when the kid raised the rifle and cocked it just as Donatello’s cry sounded. He blacked out to the roar of the gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I'm garbage when it comes to updating. Chapter 10 is giving me trouble and so I was holding off posting this because after I fix chapter 10 then I have 5 more chapters already done, and I thought: "yeah this is perfect, I can post them all like once a week and it'll be great!" and then chapter 10 decided to be a dick and it STILL isn't working. *sigh* so, instead, I'll post this for you (a nearly 10,000 word chapter) as an apology. I'm hard at work~ o_o 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter. 
> 
> ~Melissa the Damgel


	11. Friday - Midnight-Noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attack on the town, and with no sheriff or deputy in sight, Leo and Usagi take up arms.

 

Chapter 10

~~~~~*~~~~~

Thursday - Night

 

There was a man in her room.

April lay still, listening, gauging where the stranger stood. She had been sleeping, finally feeling like she could get a decent nights sleep now that Casey’s fever had broken just a few hours ago. She awoke to the sound of the floorboards creaking, of her bedroom door squeaking open. Sliding her hand under her pillow, she reached for the little boot knife Casey had given her as a pathetic courting gift after she met him two years ago. She slit it out of its sheath.

Listening to someone tip-toeing closer to her bed, she hoped she wasn’t going to disappoint him. She saw the hands reaching for her from the corner of her eye and she screamed, swiping the knife at him. The man cried out, clutching his sliced fingers. April jumped from her bed and ran for the door, the little knife in hand.

Fingers grabbed her hair and pulled. She choked back a sob and reached back, grabbing at the wrist and stabbing backwards with the knife. But he grabbed her wrist, pushing her up against the door, her cheek rubbing against the rough wood.

“No no, pretty lady.” The man hissed, breath foul with whiskey. “None of that now. You’s be comin’ with us. And don’t you be forgettin’ that I’ll hit you. Bruises heal after all.”

She screamed and stomped her foot down on his, clawing at his hand with her one free one.

Then she felt pain erupt through her skull and she slipped into blackness.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

“You see anything Usagi?” Leo pushed against the bars, his cheek smashed against the bars like a child, as though, if he leaned against them hard enough he could see out the window.

Usagi; further back in the jail house than he; had a better vantage. His friend frowned, slipped his sandals off, and climbed the bars till he could see out the window near the front door. “Men with guns. Fire. Smoke. Nothing else.” He said, holding his position for a moment longer then slid down and slipped his sandals back on. “I’m sorry, Leonardo-San.”

Leo cursed under his breath and pushed away from the bars, pacing. More gunshots pierced the emptiness between reloading. The pair ducked when the window shattered beside the jail’s front door.

“We are in less than an ideal location, Leonardo-San.”

“I know.”

Usagi’s lips pursed, but he remained still, eying the front door with a stiffness in his back.

The fighting outside continued, but less than a minute passed before something thudded against the front door, the wood cracking with a deafening shriek. Again, something hit the door, and the wood moaned in its frame before it flung open and three men stumbled inside, closing the door with a bang.

“Hey, Jeb, look.” A man with a hooked nose elbowed his companion, a prairie dog with a scar across his cheek.

Jeb turned and eyed the pair, glancing around the room then back to them.

Leonardo rushed forward, rattling the door to his cell. “Let us out. Don’t leave us in here ta die.”

Jeb snorted and glanced out the window, firing several shots through the hole in the glass, ducking back down as more shots sounded and patters of bullets embedding themselves into the wall and door followed. “Ain’t got no time for a jail-break.”

“Like hell you do!” Leo spat. “I ain’t got no love for this place. Get me out of here and I’ll return the favor.”

The man with the hooked nose hesitated, and Leo could see the wheels turning in his head. He wasn’t a quick one, but he wasn’t stupid either, and Leonardo clung to that hope.

He felt Usagi’s eyes on him, and he glanced to his friend, raising both brows high then motioning toward the men. The samurai raised a brow slowly, but understanding flit across his face. “I’m a fine good shot.” Leonardo offered up, rattling the cell. “And my friend here fights like one of them charging bulls. Ain’t seen no one get the better of him yet.”

“Shut up.” Jeb barked, and he and his other companion fired three rounds before they ducked again.

“Jeb, they got a point. We could use another set of guns.” Hook-nose said.

Leonardo stretched his arm out, holding out his hand. “Just throw us the keys. They’re by the door there.”

“But…”

“We will not cause you any distress after we are free. We can leave after we are released. We simply wish to escape during this chaotic time.” Usagi said, standing in the middle of his cell as still as a statue.

Hook-nose eyed him, again hesitating. “You one of them Indians?”

Leo leaned against the bars, “Look, it don’t matter. Just get us out of here.”

“Kade, shut them up!” Jeb snarled and fired several shots out the window.

Hook-nose, or Kade, jumped at Jeb’s orders, and he glanced at his leader, back to Leo and Usagi, then up at the keys. He snatched them off the hook and darted across the room, bent low, the keys clanging together. “You swear you’ll help, right?”

“We want nothin’ to do with the Marshal or his men.” Leo said, and it was partly true.

Kade hesitated then nodded, fumbling with the keys. He shoved one in the lock and rattled the keys as bullets punctured through the wall. Kade ducked, eyes round and surrounded by white. “Shit.”

Leo reached through the bars and snatched at the keys, pulling them from the lock and tossing them to Usagi who snatched them from the air like he was plucking them from a hook. “Quick.” He said, and turned back to Kade’s confused look. He sighed, “Sorry.” He reached through and grabbed Kade, jerking him forward and cracking his head against the bars. His nose broke, blood splattering down his chin, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Kade grabbed Leo’s arm.

Usagi’s door clanged open with a twist of a key.

Jeb jerked his head around and swore. His companion copying him. They turned, raised their guns, and aimed; but Usagi was faster. He ran across the room in a blur of blue robes and white fur. He reached the men just as they pulled the triggers and his foot connected with their wrists, forcing their aim off to the side. Reversing directions instantly, Usagi’s foot came down hard on  their wrists and knocked the guns from their grips.

Jeb shouted and lunged forward, grabbing Usagi about the waist and barreling through with his attack. Usagi hammered down on the back of his head with his elbow just as Jeb’s companion scrambled for his gun.

“Usagi!”

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

Marshal Bishop awoke to screaming and gunshots. He sat up in bed and calmly stood, still fully dressed except for his boots. He put them on, placed his hat on his head, buckled his gun around his hips, and stepped out into the hallway, “Men, get your six shooters loaded!” His voice carried like a locomotive’s cry. He checked his gun as he moved down the stairs, spun the barrel, and as cool as a cucumber he stepped out into the night and assessed the situation.

Ruffians, bandits, thieves. They took the town by surprise. They looted, dragged men and women from their homes, he saw several girls being handed off one man to another as they threw them over the saddles of men on horseback.

Shaking his head, he took careful aim and fired. He hit a man taking off with a girl and he fell from the saddle, a perfect shot to his heart. The girl screamed as she fell, but he ignored her from there as he sidestepped behind a pillar along the boardwalk and rolled around it to the other side. He took aim at the man above and shot him out of the clock tower.

It was almost boring for him as he went through the motions, walking from one end of the town to the other, taking note of any particular men who needed putting down without a trial. He also took note of what direction the men were fleeing.

Further up the street, Bishop huffed as he saw several men break into the jail and break a window before firing at some of his men across from them. Bishop motioned to his men to keep firing before he turned on his heel and sauntered several alleys down, giving himself space between the men holed up in the sheriff’s office, and hiding behind their limited range of sight. Only when he was satisfied did he duck down and run. He ran across the street, hearing the gunshots pop, and the smell of the smoke and fire on the night air. He felt the flames the closer he drew to the jail, the saloon just a couple dozen yards away where it was now on fire.

The shooting stopped abruptly from within and Bishop darted for the door, not hesitating when he saw an opening. He kicked the door in, shattering the frame, and it swung open, cracking against a man’s head just as he fell to the floor from a well placed punch from the foreigner who was not locked in his cell.

He raised his guns, sighting the freed prisoner. The rabbit slowly raised his hands, palms facing him, much more in a placating manner than in any form of surrender as this country saw it.

“Interesting.” Bishop grunted, glancing between the unconscious man by the door, and his two prisoners, and one of Hun’s men, the larger of the lot here, stood up with a snarl, focused completely on the rabbit.

Leonardo had an arm around the neck of one, holding him up against the bars of his cell, and choking him out. The ruffian gurgled and kicked out at the air, his face red and his lips turning blue.

The large man moved for the rabbit, fist pulled back in a hay-maker, and the Asian smoothly side stepped and made quick jabbing motions with his fists, knocking the brute to the ground where he stayed down.

“Gentlemen.” Bishop snapped. His gun still pointed at his freed prisoner.

Leo released his captive, who dropped in a heavy pile. Usagi bowed to him, red eyes watching him the entire time. Bishop raised a brow at the pair. “Bishop-san.”

“You had freedom in your grasp.”

“We’d never work with them.” Leo said from behind his locked door.

Bishop considered that for some time. Leonardo had maintained the same story the entire trek through the wilderness on their way north. He would hang once he got back to San Antonio. But, if he had indeed killed the leader of a larger crime organization, he supposed he should give him the opportunity to kill several more key members before he died.

He nodded at this final decision. He would use him, just as he had hundreds before, to make his job more successful with carefully placed acts of revenge. “This is the gang you seek vengeance against?”

The terrapin nodded.

Bishop nodded, glancing back out the door to the town where two sides of the saloon’s walls roared bright in flames, licking at the balcony the whores had stood on the day before. “Alright then. You will still stand trial for your crimes, but, I need men to take this ruffian down. You help me, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Done.” Leonardo said without hesitation. Bishop lowered his pistols and holstered them, palms on the grips. Usagi bowed his head and turned, retrieving the keys and unlocking his friend’s door. Leonardo pushed his cell door open, stepping out. He squat down before one of the men, and unbuckled his gun belt and bullets. “I’ll want my own guns back when we fight Hun.” He said, eyes glaring at him.

“Of course.” Bishop watched, flicking his gaze over to the rabbit, who quietly pulled two knives from the men around him.

“And my katana, if you please. I do not feel properly prepared for battle without them.”

“I suppose.” He said, narrowing his eyes. But Usagi ignored him after that. He fixed his robes and topknot, curiously calm but ferocious as he cleaned himself up.

The pair stepped past him and Bishop followed, reloading his gun.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

Leonardo was seventeen when his family died. He had planned to take over the farm from his father, help his parents, perhaps even raise his own family on that same stretch of land. Raphael had always been the one who had dreams of riding off to one of them big cities, to become anything else but a farmer. Though Leo never had the impression it was because Raphael hated the life. If anything, Raphael was the best at it and would have been a better farmer than himself. But he wanted something different because he wanted to be different from Leo.

Firing his pistol, Leonardo twisted back around the corner of a rough wooden building, ignoring the bullets hitting the wall in front of him. He reloaded three bullets, preferring to stay prepared than to be shit out of luck. He counted the bullets, eyes closed, then he nodded and waved his hand, and the air shifted around him as Usagi darted out into the street, low and fast, and he was across the way in just a handful of heartbeats. The shouts of men said it all; the blades that Bishop had given the rabbit back had found their mark.

Leo followed, twin six-shooters out, raised, searching the gun smoke filled street for movement, for hiding places, for danger. A shadow moved to his left, Leonardo tuned, made a split second decision, and fired. The shadow shouted and fell to the dirt. Two more shouted and tuned tail, disappearing around a corner.

He joined Usagi on the side of another building.

“I dispatched three armed bandits.” The rabbit said, giving his blades a flick to free them of any lingering blood.

“They’re retreating.” Leonardo said, peeking around the corner, eyes sharp, but sharper still in hopes of seeing Hun. “Just not fast enough.”

“The real question, my friend, is why they came in the first place.”

Leonardo pursed his lips. “And the real reason why Bishop let us out.”

Usagi’s red eyes met his, grim and in full agreement.

A scream jolted his heart up into his throat, and it made his trigger finger itchy. The scream tore down the street and it curdled his blood. Leonardo leapt from hiding, guns raised and he watched as though the world seemed  to slow like they moved through water, as a man on horseback rode past with a bound girl tied to the saddle-horn sitting in front of him.

“Debbie!” A man screamed, chasing after the horse, blood streaming from a cut over his eye.

Into the smoke they rode and were gone with only her cries lingering.

The man released a sob and hit his knees, curling into himself.

Leonardo knew that feeling, the realization he would never catch up to a loved one. He had watched Hun that day, a rope around his neck, bucket under his feet the only thing keeping him from suffocating. His sisters’ screams lingered in his ears as they were taken, ridden off with; just like Debbie.

That’s when he knew what this was. He stiffened, turning his head, looking at the chaos around him but looking past it all, seeing the families, the mothers, the husbands, the smallest of the children sobbing on porches and behind water troughs. He looked to Usagi, eyes wide. “He’s doing it again.”

Usagi nodded as though he had already come to that same conclusion. “We must find the sheriff.”

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

The blacksmith shop sat ignored, lonely, and silent on the edge of town, outlined by the small fires that littered the town beside it. Leonardo exited, shaking his head, and Usagi turned slowly in place. Leo looked down the street and then up it, out toward the open land that Hun had ridden off on, and his gut soured, imagining his brother laying somewhere, dead in some sick twist of fate to have survived years ago only to die now at the same man’s hands.

He gripped the pistol in his hand, his mind grasping at thoughts. “The priest wasn’t inside either.”

Usagi considered that, turning toward the church across the way.

Leo nodded in agreement. The gravel crunched under his boots, his pulse picking up pace. The door to the church was open, he could see that now. Taking the steps two at a time, Leo burst into the church in a flurry of dust and gunsmoke.

There, in the aisle, unmoving with blood lacing down his face, Raphael lay.

Leonardo couldn’t breath, his jaw tight, his fist shaking as he gripped the pistol. Usagi stepped in beside him, and Leo felt his posture change. The rabbit settled a hand on his shoulder, red eyes imploring. “Do you wish me to check, my friend?”

“No,” Leo said immediately, his mouth tacky and throat hoarse. “He’s my blood.” He shuffled forward, a chill racing over him. He knelt at his brother’s side, reaching for his face, tilting his cool cheek toward him. He swallowed past the lump lodged behind his tongue. His face burned, and a headache formed behind his eyes. He smelled gun smoke. It still lingered in the air around them like a haze of mist that just wouldn’t lift. Leo patted his brother’s cheek, his heart resuming its beating and he choked on his next breath. “Raphael…”

A scuffling of boots on the wooden floor, and the scrape of a chair as it was tripped over, brought Leo’s attention up, spying the young boy over his shoulder. Usagi moved swift as the wind, snatching the boy’s wrist and twisting his arm down and back till he wailed in pain and hit his knees, a knife to his throat.

Choking on a breath, Leonardo jerked back to his brother, watching Raphael inhale sharply, his arm jerking up before it fell back to the floor, still unconscious, but breathing deeper now.

Leo released the breath he held and he bowed his head, patting his brother’s chest. Alive. He’d have one hell of a headache in the morning on account of the goose egg growing on his brow, but he looked to be all right.

Standing, Leonardo turned on his heel and marched to Usagi’s side, and took to a knee. He grabbed the boy’s greasy hair and jerked it up. Breathing past the smell of body odor and horse sweat, Leonardo narrowed his eyes, fingers tightening ever so and making the kid wince. Good.

“Normally I would just assume you were a local; seein’ as how we both ain’t been in this town more than a day. But seein’ how you are here in the same room as my brother, I’m goin’ to go out on a limb and say you’re th reason he ain’t wakin’ up.” He leaned closer, seeing his reflection in the boy’s terrified and wide brown eyes. “I don’t like people hurtin’ my family. So you best be talkin’ before my friend’s hand here slips and cuts yer throat.” He hissed.

Usagi pressed the blade a little tighter against the boy’s neck. Whimpering escaped the boy.

“By accident, of course.”

He was perhaps fifteen, just shy of sixteen. No more than a pup, really, and yet, old enough to know what he was doing. He had a bandanna wrapped around his brow, and he sported a bloody lip and a bruising cheek. Leonardo raised a brow at him, his thumb cocking and un-cocking the pistol’s hammer. “Well?”

“I… I…”

Leonardo raised his gun, cocked the hammer and fired into the floor, the gun held not a foot away from the kid’s face. The boy screamed, eyes squeezed shut and body trembling. Words poured from his mouth, high pitched and desperate.

“Hun told me to shoot him! I never killed no one before. I couldn’t do it. Honest! I was a coward, I was, and when I fired it shot the floor. Hun hit me and took the rifle. He was getting ready to shoot him when the priest got away and tackled him!”

“Now that’s better.” Leonardo said, still crouched before him. “What happened to the priest?”

“The boys grabbed him, dragging him outside, and Hun told me to finish the job or not to come back. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t!” The boy sobbed, fat tears sliding down his cheeks. “Then I heard all the fighting, and I hid.”

“Good boy.” Leonardo patted his cheek a little too hard and stood. Usagi pulled the knife away, though he still pressed his knee against the kid’s back as he held his wrist.

“Take him to the jail and get him locked up.” Leonardo said, his voice gentling now, and he turned, heading back to his brother. He patted his pockets down, drawing out the jail keys and tossed them to Usagi. The rabbit caught them easily. “We’re going to need to question him further. Bishop probably will have some questions for him too.”

“Agreed.” Usagi bowed his head before he released the kid just long enough to scruff him by his shirt and pull him to his feet. “Come now, and no running. My knife throwing skills are excellent, even with inadequate and over weighted disgraceful knives such as these.”

Judging by the bow of the boy’s head, he didn’t even entertain the idea of running. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go, Leonardo surmised.

Turning back to his brother, Leonardo looked Raphael over to make certain he truly wasn’t injured, and other than the blood on his brow, he looked decent enough. “Raphael, wake up.” He said, shaking him, and praying his brother would be all right. He couldn’t lose him so soon. Not again.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

Friday - Dawn

 

“You’ll come and get me if he wakes up?” Leonardo asked, his eyes meeting the nurse’s.

Miss Milo leveled a look at him, one of half annoyance, and half amused-affection. “Yes, I promise I’ll fetch you right away.” She then smiled at him, soft and rather sweet.

Leo nodded, looking past her to Raphael, before he ducked his head and shuffled backwards, fidgeting with his hat in his hands. “Thank you.”

Miss Milo laughed softly, and Leonardo’s face warmed. His shoulder clipped the doorway as he turned, and stumbled into the main room. He peeked back at the nurse, and she watched him go, a hand to her mouth and laughter in her eyes.

Usagi stood at the front door, arms crossed over his chest, his katana pair tied to the sash at his waist. He raised his scarred brow at him.

“Shut up.” Leo grunted, pushing past him and out onto the porch.

The lightening sky hazed along the edges of the world with a shroud of darkness overhead. Gold tipped clouds puffed along, swallowing the sun in rosy hues and bruised purples. Dawn flirted with the night, and Leonardo worried what morning’s light would bring.

He looked around the town, noting the saloon owner standing still, gripping his cane as he stared up at the blackened siding of his building. The injured turtle head’s hung low and shoulders fallen.

Leonardo spied the injured sheriff further down the street, barking out orders. His hurried steps sent up puffs of dust with a tireless intensity as he waved his arms, directing people this way and that. He sagged at the end of each rotation, but he kept moving. Leo swore he could see the paleness of his skin from here. His hand curled into a fist, his shoulders tightening.

“Leonardo-san?”

“We need to find Bishop. We need to make arrangements for trackin’ down Hun and his men.”

“Bishop is with the mayor right now.” Usagi said. “He explained to me if we attempted to leave, one of the five men he set to watching us wouldn’t hesitate to shoot us in the back.”

“Doesn’t mean we have ta sit around on our backsides countin’ grass.”

Usagi went quiet for some time, his own eyes roaming the people, and he lifted his chin, meeting the first flicker of golden light kissing the swaying grass of the plains. “In my homeland, back in Japan, there was a law set forth, banning Samurai from walking the streets openly. I left the cities, living in the rural mountainous regions where the city laws did not reach us. While there, I pledged myself to a lord, and I found myself a home. I lived as I had been raised, and it was a good life. A very good life.” His voice trailed off, red eyes seeing something far away.

He didn’t talk about his past, no more than Leo had talked about his, but Usagi made his history seem so much more substantial and celestial. He hung on his every word.

“But, eventually the emperor sent his troops, and soldiers, trained in the warfare of this country, and they came for us. They said we were old and antiquated.” His nose twitched, closing his eyes for a short moment. “Swords are little more than a child’s toy when pit against the might of gunpowder in iron.” He sighed, gripping the sleeve of his robe. “There were not many who survived. Including our families. My lord perished in the battle, and I was left without a master to live and fight for. I am ronin, master-less, homeless. All I have left is the honor I live by, the honor I give my ancestors by carrying their name, and the last of my hope.”

He looked at him then, his red eyes locking with his. “Leonardo-san, it is not Hun you hunt. It never was. Do not lie to yourself, not so fully that you miss entirely what it is you see when you look out at these people.”

Leo looked away, jaw tightening. Usagi shifted, moving into his peripheral, and Leo’s heart pounded. He didn’t want to think about this, think beyond simple revenge, because if he did, he would want things for himself; and that somehow translated to him failing his family.

“You want what this town has to offer. Do not let it slip from your fingers; or, I may have to think less of you.”

Leonardo jerked his gaze back to his friend, a sour taste rolling up over his tongue.

Usagi finally dropped his eyes, his arms folded in such a proper fashion that others looked sloppy compared to him. He nodded, almost as if he were satisfied with his words. He turned and left him standing on the porch, his back dark against the sun’s golden morning.

Leonardo gripped his belt, his heart hammering at the sight of him, walking away. Usagi had saved him at a time in his life when he had little left. To have the man see him yet again stumble and refusing to stand, it was humiliating. He was disappointed in himself.

He looked then, out at the town, at the scrambling figures, at the dirt covered, blood stained, tear streaked faces. He looked to the ones standing strong. He saw the ones who were so close to giving up. He knew how they felt. He understood them. He cared for them.

And that terrified him. If he cared, it meant he could be hurt.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

Sheriff Jones patted the saloon owner on the back, motioning him toward the hospital, when he paused, studying Leo in return.

Leonardo looked away, but he heard the sheriff approach, pausing on the bottom step, leaning with relief on the railing.

“Marshal says he let ya’ll out. Gotta say, I’m shocked neither you boys ran off.”

“I have my reasons for wantin’ ta see this through.”

“Would that involve joinin’ us for an emergency meetin’?”

Leonardo looked at the man then. He looked worn out, but there was a bit of color back in his cheeks. He looked like hell, but he also looked like hell with a purpose. “I suppose I could join you.”

“Good. I didn’t want to arrest ya.”

Leo frowned, brows knotting together. The man smiled a half smile then, wiping his sweaty brow.

“Marshal told me what you did. From what I understand though, the man you killed was a right nasty character.” He tapped his finger against the railing, a small breeze ruffling his dark hair. “You saved a lot of people last night when you didn’t have ta. And seein’ how you’re Raph’s brother, I got it in my head you ain’t as bad as the Marshal says ya are. So let’s cut the bullshit and get somethin’ straight, I ain’t got nothin’ but my gut sayin’ I should trust you. And so long as you don’t give me a reason to shoot you, I’m willin’ ta work with you. Fair enough?”

Leonardo frowned, digging his nails into his palm to remind himself that this was indeed a real moment. “Most people don’t want to trust a criminal.”

“Yeah, well, I got a bad habit of makin’ friends with the troublemakers in town. Started with Mikey back there when we was kids and continued on ta your brother. Can’t stop there, can I?”

“Why?” Leo shook his head, that overwhelming feeling of belonging spreading within his breast. He didn’t know what would happen if he accepted it, and it was taken from him.

Sheriff Jones frowned at him, his silence stretching out till the skin on the back of Leo’s neck prickled and a shudder ran down his spine. “Because it’s what Donatello would want me to do. I have ta believe that not everythin’ in this world is shit. That God helps those who help themselves, like Don would say.” He exhaled, and he pushed his shoulders back. He didn’t look as tired as before. “Maybe… maybe God is helpin’ us. By sendin’ two brothers who were hurt just as bad by that bastard out there, as this town is hurtin’, and He’s tellin’ us you may be rough on the outsides, but your hearts are in the right place.”

Leonardo shifted forward, stepping down off the porch with a scrape of his boots. He stood level with the sheriff’s gaze then, meeting the man as equals.

“I need ya in this. This town needs ya. And I sure as hell ain’t goin’ to turn away a damn good marksman like yourself just because my head is tellin’ me you should be locked up right now for killin’ a man. My gut is tellin’ me you will stand by us and help us. The same way your brother has.”

Leonardo wanted to argue, he wanted to tell Jones he was a fool; and yet his throat felt too tight to talk.

“So, are you with me? Are you goin’ to shake my hand and swear to help our town? Because I gotta say, it’d be a real piss move ta make me lock ya’ll up.”

He chuckled at that then, and Jones smiles, and it felt good. Leonardo held out his hand and Sheriff Jones took his hand, his grip firm and strong.

“I’m with you.”

Jones nodded and pointed over his shoulder. “Lets go talk ta the Marshal. We plan to leave at dawn if we can.”

“I won’t let Hun get away. Not again.”

“Good.” Jones smiled. “I don’t think anyone wants that man survivin’ the day.”

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

“You’re certain that’s what you heard?” Marshal Bishop asked, mopping up his food with a bit of bread and popping it in his mouth.

The kid behind bars nodded, scrunched up on the rough hewn wooden bench pressed against the wall. The boy - he forgot his name, D-something - kept his eyes lowered and his arms wrapped about his knees. “He figured ya’ll will try and ambush them in the mornin’, so he’s plannin’ on ridin’ up north right now, Said he wasn’t goin’ to do much more than grab their stuff and ride on out. Mentioned Idaho cause they don’t gots a militia  like Montana does. Told the men they ain’t sleepin’ till tomorrows or somethin’.”

“Then we best get a move on.”

The boy did look at him then, scared and white faced. “Hun’s smart-”

“Not as smart as me.”

He frowned, gripping  an elbow. “Yer a man whose book smart. Hun’s a man whose smart like a coyote. He won’t be so easy to trick.”

“We’ll see.” Bishop licked gravy from his thumb and handed off his plate to one of his men to take back to the kitchen of which-ever widow had made it up for him. He stood then, hands behind his back, and the kid stiffened, backing away from him. “Now that that’s out of the way, we can discuss your father and how much he was willing to pay me to find you.”

The kid’s eyes darted away.

Bishop unlocked the cell door, swinging it wide. “But we’re not concerned about your father, are we? He leaned against the bars. “Now I might be rounding you up for money, but Hun,” he shook his head, tipping his hat back. “Hun is the sort of bounty that will made a name for me and my own. So we’re going to pretend we didn’t hear that bullshit story, and you’re going to tell me the truth.”

The boy bowed his head, shoulders falling.

Good. If the kid was broken, it made it that much easier for him to cart him back to New York. He got what he came for, the rest was just… collateral.

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

 

The operating table was cold. Stitch after stitch, thick and unwieldy, the needle stabbed into his leg and the pain didn’t matter because he had failed.

“This will scar.”

“Don’t care.” Raphael muttered, staring over the broad shoulders of LH.

Raphael had woken up in the hospital, not remembering why the hell he was there to begin with. Though the goose egg at his temple with a spreading bruise that caused his eye to swell had reminded him readily enough of what happened.

 He had listened then as a nurse, something de Milo, explained to him what had happened. Four people dead, three girls missing, and half the saloon nearly burnt to the ground.

And the Marshal had announced he would be leaving with a posse.

Crawling out of bed and cussing at the nurses till he had his pants and boots on, Raphael stormed from the hospital in the early morning light and limped through the streets with a dark brown patch on his leg where the stitches had ripped free. He didn’t blink twice at the accusatory glares. It was all true. He failed them, and he deserved everything they said about him.

He replayed the fight that had ensued, the swearing on his part, the disinterest Bishop had displayed, and the fact his own brother had backed up the damn Marshal.

They refused to let him go off on the hunt for the son-uv-a-bitch. He was useless laid up as he was, and the damnedest part - he knew they were right. His six shooter sand good aim be damned. He couldn’t go off riding after a man and hope for his leg to hold up.

He had sat in the waiting room after that for what felt like hours. The morning hour began to slip away into the blistering heat just before noon, and Raphael finally got his turn with the Doc, feeling numb to everyone and everything.

A flicker of pain registered as LH stabbed him again, and the corner of his mouth grimaced. He gripped the edge of the table all the tighter till his fingers hurt. His leg twitched.

“Hold still.”

Raphael grunted at him.

He was nothing but a stranger in this town. Useless. He didn’t know their names or who their relations were. It sickened him because it made it easier to detach himself.

Yet, he _knew_ why he had knocked on the Padre’s door that morning nearly a week ago. It wasn’t just because Donnie was making him feel like living again, but this town made him want to live _in_ it. Though he couldn’t understand why the hell he wanted that. He wanted to be part of something more again.

And despite the danger, Raphael admitted to himself as LH stabbed him with the needle, he wanted Donnie in every sense of the word, even if it made him downright poetic and shit. A night under the stars with Donnie didn’t seem enough now that he knew him. A lifetime didn’t seem long enough either.

The Doc leaned back, his stool squeaking as he moved. The bloody needle clutched between thumb and forefinger seemed more a threat than a tool meant for healing. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” LH snapped.

For a second, Raphael thought he heard him wrong. He frowned at the large crocodile, and the Doc hissed at him, his eyes slitting in such a way that Raphael understood the predator wasn’t asking for an answer, he was demanding. Raphael looked away.

“You stink of anxiety, remorse, and desperation. So which is it, Raphael, what concerns you more? The town, your failure as a Deputy, or Donatello?”

Scowling, Raphael leaned back, glaring out the too bright window that made his eyes sting and water. Pain lanced up his leg and he shouted, grabbing the Doc’s steel-like fingers where they clamped down overtop his wound and squeezed. His voice choked in his throat as he tried to pry LH away from his leg. Fresh blood welled up between strong fingers.

“Shit!” 

LH’s tail swung out, slamming the door shut with a crack. Behind him, his stool clattered backwards as he stood, eyes flashing a greenish-gold. “Well?” his teeth snapped in front of his face.

Raphael hissed right back at him. “Donnie, okay?”

“Why?” LH pressed down harder on his thigh and Raphael felt a stitch pull on his tender skin. That damn wound had to be nothing but ragged flesh and meat by now. The stitch close to popping.

“Why does it matter!” Raphael pressed forward, fisting the collar of the Doc’s rumpled and red stained medical coat.

LH leaned in closer to him, his breath puffing against Raphael’s face, eyes locked with his and holding him in place like a rattler as it stared down the bastard who dared to try and step on him. His blood pounded in his ears, mimicking the singing tail that counted down the seconds till death, or life.

The Doc’s voice dipped, dark and husky. “Because Donatello is my friend.”

“Well shoot, Doc, so am I.”

LH scowled and shoved away from him, wiping his hands clean on a dark colored rag. “No. You’re not. You will never be his friend.”

It actually hurt, hearing that, like he was somehow left outside to bake under the sun with the vultures circling overhead. He wiped at his nose and looked away. Defiance was his first line of defense, but he knew the Doc had seen something in him and Donnie to cause this. His heart sped up. “Like you’re some expert at Donnie.”

“Maybe.” LH set the rag aside and righted the stool, taking his seat. The room was a disaster to begin with; nothing like the white and sterile room he had been in that first time. Blood soaked sheets shoved in a basket in the corner, instruments soaking in water and vinegar solution on the counter, gauze half unrolled with scissors next to them laying on the counter. LH himself looked harried, run ragged after half a night and early morning filled with patients.

So when the Doc sat back down and leaned over his leg to begin his work again, Raphael didn’t pull away, he just stared at the Doc and felt his fingers twitch at his sides.

He needed to talk about what he heard, what he saw, how he felt in that second before Hun interrupted everything. The darkness that surrounded him, and the light at the end of the tunnel as those words twisted through the air on an evening breeze. It soaked into his skin, soft and gentle; something that should have been harsh and frightening, was anything but. And it terrified him. He shouldn’t be so at ease over this, but he was… and he was fine with it. Eager…

As the scissors snipped the stitches, Raphael looked down, having not felt a single prick of the needle. He swallowed hard.

“What did you learn.” LH asked, standing up as he set aside his tools.

Raphael looked away. He couldn’t say anything. If he did, when Donnie got back, he could be hung for it.

“Once, shortly after I met him, I went to find Donatello. It was just before he was to take his vows, and I could often find him in the church either studying with the former Father, or praying.” LH said, filling the silence suddenly.

Raphael twitched, but he couldn’t look away from those broad shoulders as he worked.

“When I got to the church, he wasn’t inside. I found him around back, sitting on the steps and watching a young woman and man courting under the old sycamore tree out there in the field. They were simply talking, but I could tell by the way the girl smiled and fiddled with her shawl that she was thoroughly enjoying the young man’s attentions.” LH wiped the needle down after pouring a few drops of iodine over it. “Then the man reached for her and pushed her hair behind her ear. She turned scarlet and ducked her head, smiling for all the world like a girl in love.”

He knitted his brows together, looking to LH to try and understand why he was being told this.

The Doc turned back to him, yellow eyes locking in on him. “Later that evening, we were sitting just outside this very hospital, on this very porch, and he asked me if there was any reason I could give against him becoming a priest.” LH raised a brow, and Raphael jerked his eyes away because his gaze; steady, authoritative, and sure; made his skin crawl.

“I told him there wasn’t.”

“Was there?” Raph’s voice broke on him like a dry desert’s landscape.

LH shook his head. “No, I had no reason to dissuade him. I knew he was disappointed. I knew Donatello was asking if there was a chance for him to be like that young woman and find someone for himself.” LH looked away then, folding his arms over his broad chest. “So I held my tongue and encouraged him to believe in his path, because the future alternative would have been watching my friend hang.”

Raphael jerked his eyes up sharp, jaw squared. He gripped his knees so tight that his knuckles hurt.

The Doc returned his gaze, nodded, and a lead weight flipped in his stomach.

“He never quite came out and told me that night. And as far as I know, he has never told anyone his greatest secret. I figured it out and even now, I’m not entirely certain I understand it.” He dipped his chin down as his tail swayed with the agitation of voicing something so dangerous, and something so personal. “But he’s my friend, and you have yet to prove yourself to me.”

Raphael nodded, thinking that over for a moment. If LH was alluding to what he was, then he knew and wasn’t going to tell anyone. “How do I go about provin’ myself to ya?”

The light of midday eased into the room, so bright, so clear and glorious, and it felt so wrong for the moment. It felt like a conversation that should be discussed behind locked doors in the dead of night. A conversation they would whisper in code by candle light, with faces hidden on moonless nights. Not in the middle of the day with a crowd of people just feet from the door.

“Just…protect him.”

“Was plannin’ on it, Doc.”

“I mean-” LH paused and huffed out a breath, jaw flexing and teeth snapping together in frustration.

Raphael sat unmoving, for once giving another his limited patience so he could find the right words. When they came, Raphael’s cheeks warmed.

“If you care, you will protect him.” The Doc whispered - and it was like the world stopped spinning for a fraction of a second as the full weight hit him.

Raphael nodded, his gaze never wavering from LH’s, because he wouldn’t lie, not to anyone let alone himself; not anymore. He did care.

“Got it.”

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

Marshal John Bishop was a bastard.

Leo narrowed his eyes at the man, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at the man from across the jail room. “We’re not doin’ this for nothin’.”

Bishop shrugged a shoulder, leaning back to sit on the corner of the Sheriff’s desk. “If you aid in the recovery of Hun, I will put in a good word for you.”

“Not good enough.” Leo turned to leave but was stopped in his tracks, several of the Marshal’s men surround them, as silent and stalwart as any soldier under a general. He shot a look toward Usagi, and the ronin hadn’t moved, head held high, arms crossed in front of him in that odd way he did that didn’t look comfortable but had to be because he did it almost every second of the day when standing still.

Bishop eyed him, shifting back a little as if he were looking up at the two. “All right. I can state my case and my findings to the judge and put a stay of execution. If what I’ve seen is accurate, it will not go against my morals, as well-”

“Better, but not enough.” Leo spoke over him, silencing the man once more. Bishop’s nostrils flared, but that was the only indication that Leo was pissing him off. Good. The lizard licking son-of-a-bitch deserved it.

The Marshal considered him for some time, his boot talking the wood floor with a steady, strong beat that it felt as if the room was breathing, ticking down the minutes till his boot stopped like a dead man’s heart. Bishop stood, walked around the desk and sat down. His pen scratched across a sheet of paper, his handwriting spidery and sharp. He signed the document, waved two of his men over and they signed the document as well before the Marshal stood and handed the paper over to Leo.

He eyed Bishop, a part of him wanting to refuse to take it, but he also knew it was best to know Bishop’s full hand than to stay in the dark. He could always burn the paper if it was a load of horse shit. The words sliced just as sharp as they looked.

 

_“I, Marshal John M. Bishop, sound of mind and body, do hereby declare, after further investigation of evidence found in the apprehension of said convicted, Leonardo T. Salvatore, have found the charges placed upon him falsely laid. In upholding my moral codes, as well as my vows upon taking me the mantel of law enforcer and peace keeper, I can not in good conscious allow an innocent man to be hung for crimes he did not commit. I have therefore, by witness of my fellow Marshals and seconds, absolve Leonardo Salvatore of all crimes._

_~John M. Bishop_

_Witnesses:_

_~James Finn       ~Billy Sullivan_

 

“Good enough for you?”

Leonardo swallowed hard, throat choked up. “Write up a second one for Usagi, and you have a deal.” He whispered, and Bishop nodded, pulling forth a second sheet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Vomits all over this chapter* screw it! I'm so done with this chapter! 
> 
> Its not even that its bad, its just that I could NOT find any way possible (without taking another few months to brainstorm this chapter out) to make this chapter more interesting so it flowed better and had more action and less info-dump dialogue. 
> 
> For the sake of you all who have been SO PATIENT, I wash my hands of chapter (for now) and you may all read what I have. 
> 
> So there you are. The next chapter. The calm before the storm. The proverbial moment just before the other shoe drops. Enjoy the sunshine and bunnies this chapter was, because the next three chapters will (hopefully) tear your guts out. The life of an author - sadistic, masochistic dumbasses who choose the life of doing something hard all for the sake of making the bloody voices stop. 
> 
> I'm not bitter about this chapter. *glares at it.*
> 
> le'sigh. like I said, its not HORRIBLE. but it is most definitely not my best. The only part of this chapter that I'm in love with is how Raph's and LH's scene came out. 
> 
> Raphael just didn't want to be in this chapter. IT was like he got knocked out in the last one and he was all: "Screw you! You knock me out, I ain't talkin' this chapter!" and he SOOO didn't. I have 6 different scrapped word documents just filled with alternate versions of this chapter (hard fact that is). In every single version, Raphael just wasn't active in it. Leo was the one who saved the day... for the most part. 
> 
> So I do apologize for this crappy chapter. But at the same time, I finally got something decent. But man, unless I spent another four months just working on it, I CANNOT figure out right now how to make this any better. So; I give it thus to the world. Vomit and all. 
> 
> I'll post the next chapter very soon. less than a week probably. 
> 
> ~Melissa the Damgel


	12. Friday - Before Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for this chapter: Extreme implied violence at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 11

~~~~~*~~~~~

Friday - Before Dawn

 

The room stank like molasses and unwashed men. Donatello struggled to sit up, but his head throbbed and he felt disoriented without a source of light to guide his movements. He did hear the faint singing of sleepy birds, a soft tweeting sound that lapsed for minutes at a time before starting up again like women gossiping at the grocers.

As if hearing his wakefulness, the door in front of him burst open and candlelight flooded in. He hissed and shielded his eyes, but Donatello forced himself to ignore the pain and face the man looming over him.

Hun towered like a shadow of violent mass and foreboding ire. His hand rested at his hip; not on his gun, but on a knife with an ivory handle and brass crosspiece. Donnie swallowed hard, shoulders stiff. He glanced about his room that was nothing more than a closet. He had no form of escape, and no plan. Cornered and locked down like a prairie dog whose tunnels were blocked up and being smoked out, Donatello inhaled slowly, and whispered a prayer on trembling lips.

Hun hunkered down, filling the doorway like a boulder. He regarded him with a cold look, forearms on his knees and hands clasped between them in the same way a church-goer would. It churned Donnie’s stomach. “Ya really think prayin’ is goin’ ta help ya much, Father?”

“Who are you selling the girls too?” Donnie’s voice cracked, and he didn’t care. He pulled at his bonds, his wrists feeling raw against the rough rope.

The man raised a brow, “Who said anythin’ about sellin’em?”

“No one goes from town to town just to rape girls for the hell of it. You were taking specific girls. Young girls. Pretty girls. You let your men torment and rape the older women in town because it entertains them, and keeps their hands off the merchandise. Am I right?”

“Its a lucrative business.” Hun shrugged, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.

“Mexico?”

Hun smirked. “Ya sure ask a lot of questions for a man of the cloth.”

Donnie swallowed hard, “Just tell me.”

The man pulled back, moving as if he were leaving, then he paused and raised his chin, looking down his nose at him. “You’d be plenty surprised how much a nobody virgin goes for down south. Or back east. Or in Europe.”

A shiver ran down his spine. Hun’s cold eyes gazed back at him, void of humanity. It told him everything he needed to know about what happened to previous girls. About what would happen to the girls in town if he got a hold of them. “That’s sick.” He choked out.

“Now a priest. That there is a new market all together, _Father_.” He slurred the title, eyes flashing, “So many possibilities I got ta choose from. What ta do with you…” he shook his head and smacked his lips, eyes raking down his body, “mmm, so many.”

Donnie met his gaze, jaw tight and body trembling. Fear lived with him day in and day out, wondering if someone would find him out, scared he would let something slip, someone might notice something _off_ about him. But Donatello had never been terrified for his virtue before. It was a strange feeling - death he feared, but he had an expectation of what it would be like for him. His virginity? It had never occurred to him before. The loss of controlling his own body? Having someone else make decisions for him? It scared him.

Donnie tried to breath and not look away because his hard headed defiance was all he had left. He wouldn’t look away. He wouldn’t give Hun the satisfaction of intimidating him. So he raised his head and stared him down and ignored the way the man smirked at him like he knew all to well what he was doing.

“Ya got two options here, Father. Ya can stay with me and my merry band of smugglers, lettin’ the boys have a bit of fun for those who want ta fuck a priest; or, I can take ya home and let the good people of your church deal with you - after I tell them what ya are of course.” His lips parted, vicious and ugly like a wound, and his teeth gleaming like knives. “Not many pick that last option…for obvious reasons.”

Donatello swallowed hard. “What do you plan to do with me if I stay?”

Hun grinned, “See, I like you, Father. You ask the right questions.” He grunted as he stood, his knee popping as he straightened. He stared, cold, yet amused, and he folded his arms over his chest with finality. “If ya stay, you’ll be used, beaten, and eventually sold off for labor. You’re pretty enough, ya might end up in a brothel out east. But ya will more than likely die at the hands of a master who sees ya for the filth ya are. He’ll probably rape ya, beat ya, then hang ya for all his men to laugh at while they stone ya - you’ll dangle there from a tree and die, slow like, and then probably rot, because they won’t want ta touch your corpse and bury ya proper.” He laughed at the image. Donnie shuddered.

It wasn’t anything that he hadn’t expected, but Donatello still hesitated. Hun smirked at that. “Yep, either ya die by the hands of the very people ya taught, or some faceless man who at least treats ya with the respect a sodomite deserves.” He stepped back, not waiting for an answer. “I give ya till noon ta decide.”

“Home.” Donatello said, rushed and breathy. “I’d rather face the town than you.”

Hun paused, the doorknob in hand and he considered him right back. “At least with my men ya got a chance at livin’ longer than sundown.”

“Home.” He whispered, meeting his gaze and trying not to throw up.

That wicked smile curled over his face and Hun laughed. “Fine by me, I’ll take ya home.” He bowed with a mocking laugh and stepped aside, and then waved his hand with a nod.

Three men bustled into the room, dragging three figures with them. Night skirts were the first thing that Donatello registered, and the second was the high-pitched cries they let out as they fell inside. They hit knees and hands, or they fell upon their faces before they scrambled into a corner, huddled together.

Sobs filled the once silent space, and Donatello’s belly twisted. He sat up as best he could, trying hard not to focus on every bruise and every pain. The three girls huddled together in a pile, hiding against shoulders and unbound hair. That was Amy Lee, and Jolynn, she had little Debbie Martin wrapped in her arms. Good Lord, Debbie was only eleven.

“No…” Donatello floundered against his bound ankles, wanting to stand and fight for the girls. He flung himself toward the door, a shout escaping him. “Let them go!” but a foot hit him hard in the chest and he fell backwards, gagging for a breath of air.

Hun smirked, “Did ya really think we only grabbed _you_ while we was in town?” He clucked his tongue. “We weren’t able ta grab as many as I wanted, but beggars can’t be choosers. After I drop ya off in town, we’ll be long gone, ridin’ off into the sunset, off ta St. Louis.” He waved a hand as if painting a vision of villainy in hues of reds and dusky oranges. He reached out to stroke Amy Lee’s hair, and to her credit, the girl only cringed and bit her lip to keep quiet.

A scream like some hawk in flight ripped through the hut, followed by cursing that made Donnie flush.

“We didn’t get all we wanted, but we got enough.” Hun answered his wide eyed horror. Don could see then, past his bulk, two men walked in holding a bound and cursing Angel. She kicked and spat at them, but that only got her a slap across her cheek, making her head snap to the side. They bound her legs just before they pushed her into the closet beside him, her eyes wild and teeth bared.

More grunts and curses followed. Groans of pain filed inside as the door swung open one more time. One by one, three men carried Miss O’Neil by all four of her limbs. They struggled as she fought them, screaming like a banshee of the old country. She kicked and tugged, writhing her body, and unleashing ferocious bucks with a shake of her head and a scream of defiance. She was in nothing but her nightgown and stockings.

They lugged her into the room like a sack of meal flour, bruises threatening to form over two of the men’s faces, and another had a bloody bandage about his hand.

Two more men rushed to their aid, binding her legs together and then her hands, stringing her up like a calf for branding. Donatello realized that was essentially what they were planning. He sat up, managing a solid upright position as they dumped the woman into the closet at his feet. The girls swarmed over her, huddling against the trusted adult, with tears staining their dust covered faces.

“She’ll fetch a pretty penny.” Hun nodded, eying April before he turned to the man cursing as he unwrapped his hand, revealing an ugly cut.

“Shit, bitch cut my hand.”

“You pick her up?”

The man nodded and sucked on one of his bleeding fingers. “Got the drop on her in bed. Fights dirty like a-”

Hun snorted, cutting him off. “Shut up. All I care about is havin’ one more body.” He grinned, eyes calculating as he turned them onto Donatello.

Donnie glanced to the girls; to little Debbie, as she sobbed and hiccuped with snot running out of her nose, and tears seeming too large for her body to hold. To Angel, as she fought to get her hands free, glaring daggers at the mountainous man. To Amy Lee, who was possible the sweetest child Donatello had ever known, and was shaking like a lamb before the slaughter. To Jolynn, who had never once given her daddy reason to trust her, and that look in her eye said it all. She was already figuring out a way to get out of this place, but she was playing the scared, doting older girl to hide her fight.

He could not leave them.

“Come along, Father.”

He shook his head, heart pounding, his body cold. He understood it then, like cold water waking a man up from sleep. “No,” he exhaled, falling back a little before he righted himself, leaning toward Hun. “No, I changed my mind-”

“Doesn’t matter.” He smirked. “You’ve givin’ me the perfect out. The town will be screamin’ for yer death for bein’ a sodomite. They won’t even listen to ya. All they’ll be hearin’ is your sickness.” He grinned then, leaning forward, hand on the floor, towering over the girls who gave quick shrieks of fear.

Sweat rolled down Donatello’s neck and beaded on his brow. He glanced to the girls, needing to protect them from the wolf before them. Hun would devour them, destroy them, and all for a bit of money to line his pockets. He would destroy innocence for his own deadly lust for wealth.

“The best part is, I don’t even have ta lie.” Hun’s grin spread, malicious and hungry, his hand reaching out to take his chin and jerk his face to look directly at him and not the girls. They had gone so quiet, trembling beneath the mass of Hun’s body. Donatello knew the man was repeating himself for their benefit, telling them how their lives were a lie to begin with by showing them how depraved their own priest had been.

Donnie wanted to throw up.

“When I dump ya at the feet of your beloved congregation, all they’ll see and hear is a man of the Devil. Preachin’ and teachin’ them of God’s commandments when he himself ain’t nothin’ more than a man-fucker. A liar. A man wantin’ ta lay in carnal sin with another man. A sick bastard who thought hidin’ in the church would keep him on the straight and narrow.” He shook his head. “But it didn’t. You sittin’ up at nights, thinkin’ of some man bendin’ ya over like a whore…fuckin’ ya….” His breath huffed in his face, sharp and sour. “Did ya like it? When my boys had their way with ya?” he hummed.

Donatello jerked, looking to him, the blatant lie startling him. But he heard April gasp, saw her eyes widen, and he felt bile in his throat.

Hun’s smile spread, toothy and blood thirty, eyes wide with a crazed look to them. “If yer town don’t hang ya, I bet they’ll stone ya. Beat ya to death, maybe just drown ya. Hell, I don’t care if they drag ya ta death behind their horses; all the better for me.” His words came out slow but crisp, and Donatello squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his head back to try and get away from him.

“I changed my mind. I’ll stay.” Donnie whispered; because at this point, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t leave the girls.

“Too late.” Hun practically purred and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, dragging him from the closet.

“Father Donatello!” April called, a sob in her voice.

Donatello wished she hadn’t said anything.

He was dragged from the hut, out into the cold pre-sunlight, his breath coming out in cloudy puffs, and shoved into a crowd of men. Hun’s cretins roared around him, jostling him, pushing him to-and-fro till they had to drag him across the yard, and behind the tool shed with a small cluster of scratchy brush behind it. A barrel lay on its side, new, and weather free.

Donatello thrashed, fighting against the hands, his feet digging into the earth and creating black furrows in his wake. A wretched sound burst from his chest, a sound that pleaded with them and left his chest aching as the air rushed from him in great bellowing demands to stop. Hands bruised as they gripped him tight, and Donatello’s feet were freed of their bindings in a jangle of chains.

Someone clutched the broken off handle to what had to have been a screwdriver; and another man waved a hog switch in the air; and yet another held a chisel and hammer, spinning them lazily at his side.

He cried out as his belt was cut, then he was shoved over the barrel, held there, and he screamed on deaf ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fidgets nervously* This chapter was hard to write once I got to the end. I'm sorry. but I new this chapter was coming way way back in chapter 5 or so. I promise it ends happy... ;_;


	13. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mistreatment of abused victim and the attempted legal murder of a Major Character. Basically - historical gay bashing.

Chapter 12

~~~~~*~~~~~

Friday

 

Donatello flickered to awareness with the sound of rattling keys at the door. His entire body hurt. He moved his legs and he gagged at the rush of agony up his spine. Throat dry, Donatello coughed into the dirt of the tool shed, his throat sore, and he felt something caked across his cheek pulling the skin tight. Moving his arms, just as raw and welted as the rest of him, Donatello pushed at the ground and sat up a few inches, his elbows trembling.

The door flew open then, the men in the doorway pausing for just a moment. One of them laughed. He remembered that laugh. He drew himself back from that laugh.

Their boots thumped the floor in his direction, heavy and wide. They took hold of his arms, dragging him from the shed, out into the blistering noon day sun, and across the yard to a trio of horses. They forced him into the saddle, tied his wrists to the saddle horn, and before he understood that this was happening, the men mounted their own horses, and urged his horse into a run as they led the way.

He realized he was riding to this death.

He passed out from the pain the horse’s movements caused not long after that.

He woke up, tied to his saddle, his shoulder throbbing, and his chest sore from where he was draped over the saddle horn. Donatello recognized the hills and the angle of the mountains, and he knew he was already halfway gone from the ranch with the town perched on the horizon like a tombstone. It was hours past noon, the sun an angry orange in the sky, and sweat rolled down his neck and back.

Hun hadn’t even come with them. It was just him and two villains. He could see the silhouettes of men lining the edges of town with rifles and guns at the ready. They shouted as they approached, the town bustling with activity. He could see the Marshals stepping forward, in their long coats and large hats, land hardened and saddle stooped.

The ruffians stopped on the edge of town, tying off the horses and shoving him forward, never letting him catch his footing as they pushed and threw him forward. He crawled and scrambled, avoiding their boots as best he could. He felt his lip split open, again, and blood rushed through his ears. When they finally stopped him, he knelt in the dirt, breathing hard, dripping blood into the dry earth. He could hear them, vaguely, like a dream through running water, telling them everything Hun had promised he would tell the people. They told them lies. He tried to shake his head, but they grabbed at his collar to jerk his head up, to scream at both him and the town only to shove him forward into the dirt, scraping his cheek against the rocks.

Then they were gone and he felt them, swarming toward him. Whispers at first, like bees, like they were just talking, asking questions, trying to get his attention. But he shook his head, holding his hands out, warding them away. Then their voices changed and became a roar that filled his ears like thunder and wind. He felt the first hand, then a pair, then more. They grabbed him under the arms, ripped at his body, and dragged him down main street.

And Donatello finally wailed out, waking from his fog of numbness into a nightmare.

He heard it, everything he ever feared, and he shook his head, kicking out, pulling on his arms, but he was so weak, he hurt so much already. Someone threw a rock and it hit his brow. He twisted, looking to the men holding his arms and he couldn’t stop his eyes from welling with tears as he saw Mr. Johansen and Mr. Kirkham - the same man he had held as he sobbed over the death of his son just days ago.

Pass the church, they dragged him through the field to the old sycamore tree, standing alone in the yellow and pale green grass. Rope flashed in his peripheral, and he shook his head, curling in on himself to try and avoid the blows some of the men aimed at him.

He felt the rope at his throat and a wretched sound escaped him. His fingers clawed the rough weave. A blur of words and screaming, of angry faces and hated glares spun around him and then the rope tightened and he was dragged backwards across the earth, lifted into the air in three hard jerks, and hung by his neck. Unable to say a word. Air cut off. He kicked out. Tears slid down his cheeks. The sound of their cheers burned his ears.

It was exactly how he always imagined himself dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next make me cry every time I re-read them. When reading up on the historical mindset of this subject, it truly was horrifying to me the sort of things that would occur - and because of that, I couldn't sugarcoat what would have honestly happened. 
> 
> This was common place and for the most part legal. If someone convicted of being a homosexual in this era was found guilty, if they were lucky they would receive hard labor in jail for years. If they weren't, they would be killed. End of discussion. but it was the cities and towns that were outside of the major cities that had to rely on their own "justice" to keep the peace. and this sort of thing happened.
> 
> Also, this chapter was meant to feel confusing and disorienting. I wanted it all from Donnie's point of view, and if anyone has ever had Fog-brain while being dizzy and not feeling well, can totally understand how this chapter feels correct. I had this feeling just today and doing the simplest of tasks at work was HARD. typing seemed too difficult at one point! So I hope I got that feeling of foggy-sick-confusion correct.


	14. He Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He always knew it was his greatest decision.

Chapter 13  
~~~~~*~~~~~

 

 

_He was thirteen when he saw a man hang for the first time. He stood beside his father, hand in his warm one, watching the man being led through the crowd. Eerie silence consumed the town’s people, the air heavy with moisture. It had rained the night before, and the ground shifted when he moved. They just watched the stranger, who was silent, head bowed, and looking for all the world like he knew this day had been coming._

 

_Donatello looked up at his father, his brows knitting together. But his father didn’t look at him, he just squeezed his hand. Donnie looked around at the small ring they had formed around the man at the old sycamore tree just a few hundred yards outside of town._

 

_The stranger stepped up onto a bench, hands bound behind at his back, and he looked for all the world like this very scene had been rehearsed before._

 

_Then the man began to blubber. Fat tears filled his eyes and dripped down into his beard leaving wet marks through the dirt on his face._

 

_The Mayor stepped forward, a piece of paper in hand that he didn’t really look at so much as hold up to make it all official. “Josiah Emerson, you have been found guilty for the solicitation of sodomy. You have been judged by your peers and sentenced to be hung by the neck till dead.”_

 

_“Papa…” Donatello whispered, leaning toward him, confusion making his belly jump._

 

_“Shh.” He shushed him._

 

_Donatello shifted, and the wet earth sucked at the souls of his shoes. His mother had refused to come and watch. She had wanted to keep Donatello with her, but his father had convinced her it would be a good life lesson, something he would need to witness to understand what being a grown man would mean._

 

_He saw Michelangelo across the way, standing there beside his parents, blue eyes darting from the stranger to Donnie with raised brows and a look that demanded to know why they had to watch this when they could be off hunting lizards._

 

_When the Sheriff placed a bag over the stranger’s head and the bench kicked out from under the man’s feet, Donatello wished very much that he had been hunting lizards._

 

_The man twisted in the air, kicking out, his body jerking and making him sway from side to side like how he would hold up his Papa’s pocket watch and let it swing between his fingers. He couldn’t breath the longer he watched the man hang by his neck, his boots knocking together._

 

_It took a long time. A very long time, just standing there, while a man struggled, silently screaming for help. No one ran to his aid. Donatello felt tears in his eyes and he bowed his head and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He didn’t want to get in trouble for crying over a man who did something bad enough to get the Mayor to do this to him._

 

_At dinner that night, he pushed at his food, still seeing the man hanging in that tree. Boots unmoving._

 

_“Donatello?” his mother whispered, touching his shoulder with delicate fingers._

 

_He didn’t look at her, but just having her focus her attention on him made tears threaten to well up._

 

_“Honey?” She asked again, standing from her chair._

 

_“Why did that man die?” his throat hurt._

 

_His father set his fork and knife onto his plate and leaned on his forearms, looking at him closely. “Because that man broke the law.”_

 

_“What did he do?”_

 

_His parents shared a long look, the kind where it seemed like they were able to talk to each other without speaking. With a little sigh from his mother, she knelt before his chair and took his hands in his._

 

_“He was a man who…didn’t want to marry a woman.”_

 

_Panic attacked him and jerked his head to his father and his mother, stomach flipping as questions rushed at him, too many to even sort through and ask. Did he have to get married at a certain age or he would die too? What if Mikey didn’t get married? He didn’t want Mikey to die. What about Mr. Jenkins, he lived alone on his ranch outside of town. He wasn’t married, did that mean they were going to hang him too someday? Tears did fill his eyes because it was too much; he was overwhelmed._

 

_“No, honey,” she cooed and squeezed his hands. She looked to his father for help._

 

_His father took to a knee beside his chair, elbow on the table. “Its not just because he didn’t want to marry a woman. Some men don’t ever want to get married and that’s fine. What your mother meant was…” he paused, trying to find the right words. “He would rather fornicate with a man than a woman.”_

 

_He knew that word. The priest said it a lot in his Sunday sermons._

 

_“Sex?” he whispered, the tears not leaving for a whole new reason._

 

_They both nodded and his mother relaxed a little, now that he understood a bit more. “That stranger wanted to have sex with another man in town. They caught him because the other man told him no and reported him to the Sheriff. Its called sodomy.”_

 

_Donatello shifted in his seat, his tears covering his face now and soaking into his shirt. “That’s wrong? Men liking men?”_

 

_They nodded and his dad clapped his hand over his shoulder. “It’s not natural. You remember your Sunday lessons. God made man and woman. He didn’t mean for men to lay together. If he did, men would also be able to give birth. But we can’t. That’s only a gift women have.”_

 

_“But, what if they loved each other?”_

 

_Then his parents explained why it was wrong; regardless._

 

_Donatello listened, tears endlessly dribbling till his skin began to itch. His supper was cold, and it was so dark outside he couldn’t see his parents’s faces clearly. When they finally sent him to bed, he hid his face in his pillow and tried to keep himself from sobbing in great bellowing cries. He hiccuped now and again, but he managed to keep it to short gasps and tremblings in his body._

 

_He didn’t sleep that night, wrestling with the truths his parents had told him. He was awake when the sun finally rose, turning his room into a lazy yellow._

 

_As he lay there, he knew two things, the first being that he would never marry. The second, that he liked men. He had come to that conclusion several months ago. He hadn’t thought anything of it, because it was just a part of who he was. He had made the decision that men appealed to him more than women and why argue with himself over that? But now, it was all different._

 

_He wiped his raw, puffy eyes and exhaled with a shaky quaver in his chest. He was wrong somehow? It terrified him, knowing he might die. So that only left him with one option, he would never marry, resolving himself to live like Mr. Jenkins; alone.  He closed his eyes finally managing to doze off for the first time that night, waking only when his mother shook his shoulder._

 

_Her expression softened when she saw his face, her hand brushing over his forehead to feel for a fever. “Seeing that man hang put you out of sorts.” Her question sounded more like a statement. Donnie nodded as he sat up slowly._

 

_She sat beside him, wrapping her arm about his body, rubbing his shell in little circles that also soothed him. “I’m sorry, honey.” She kissed his temple and he wiped his eyes. He didn’t have any tears left, but he couldn’t talk, his throat closing up on him._

 

_“You have always been a very kind boy. You never raise your voice except when needed, and you have always been fair and generous. You’re too good for this harsh life out here on the plains like we are. Your father is the same way, but he’s had time to harden himself up against the west.” She rubbed his arm, peeking down at him. “Don’t lose that about you, you hear me? Someday this place will soften. You’ll have to be firm, be the example of why it’s fine to be gentle too.”_

 

_He nodded but he didn’t really take her words to heart till two years later, when he sat in church on Sunday and realized he was going to become a priest. He felt like everything fell into place then, how his life felt like it had purpose again and not just scuttling around, hoping he wasn’t giving away his secrets. It had all felt so right and had lifted him up._

 

_Becoming a priest had been the best decision he had ever made for himself._

 

-

 

Donatello still believed that, even as he hung there, his vision spotting black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was almost one of the first things I wrote for this story. It helped guide who Donnie was throughout the story; and the realization he came to in Chapter 9. This is probably a useless chapter... but I, the writer, need it to be in here. This was what shaped Confessional.


	15. Friday - Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then everything moved too quickly for him to stop. It would have been like stopping the sun from rising.

Chapter 14  
~~~~~*~~~~~  
Friday - Afternoon

 

 

  
Raphael pushed through the crowd, only to be pushed right back. It wasn’t helping that his leg burned like a bitch. He saw the men approaching well enough, though his stomach flipped as the men shoved and pushed Donatello forward. Wrecked and unable to stay on his feet, the Padre crawled and stumbled, falling over like a new born colt already sickly and with less than a day to live.

 

He shoved against the people, weaving his way toward the front of the crowd when he heard the two strange men speak, their hands raised in surrender, gun belts and weapons on the ground at their feet, and looking for all the world like innocent and law abiding citizens.

 

He just didn’t believe it for a second.

 

“We’re just passin’ through! Honest! We ran across this man out on a farm a few hours ride that’a’way. “ The skinnier of the lot said, his gray shirt clean other than the sweat that discolored his chest and underarms. “Thought it odd a Father bein’ so far from church and all, but he seemed nice enough and he asked us to stay for lunch, and we obliged.”

 

The other man spoke up then, a stocky fellow with a clean shave and riding chaps that looked well used. “We was playin’ poker when Jimmy here noticed the Father was cheatin’! We then realized somethin’ was wrong.”

 

The people hushed abruptly and Raphael’s breath caught in his chest. Everyone knew Donatello won when he played poker. Always.

 

“Right!” Jimmy nodded quickly. “Then we started hearin’ this screamin’, all quiet like, like someone hollerin’ into a pillow.”

 

“So Jimmy grabbed the Father and I ran for the bedroom where we was hearin’ the noise, and I found a naked little boy in there, tied up and gagged, I did!”

 

Hands went to mouths, eyes wide and men shifted forward up on their toes. The faces around him, the people who loved the Father hesitated, doubt whispering amongst them; and still, they leaned closer.

 

“He’s a real sick one. We freed the kid while Jimmy here tied the Father up. Then we was thinkin’, he was real rich for a poor old lookin’ Father, and it got us thinkin’, ‘cause, where did a priest get money like that? Ain’t just from playin’ poker. So we roughed him up real good; got him talkin’! He said he told some man where ta find some young pretty ladies to take! Sold him information in exchange fer money… and a boy.”

 

The two men then threw a bag toward the crowd and it hit in a puff of dust with a clattering that sounded like coin. Raphael couldn’t see, but when one of the townsfolk opened the bag, he saw him pull out a fistful of dollars.

 

“How do we know you’re tellin’ us the truth?” Someone in the crowd demanded, and the crowd roared in agreement; and Raphael hoped that the town would continue to feel the same suspicion.

 

“You don’t. But that there bag of money was what we found on the priest.”

 

“The boy told us where ta find it. Said the priest had showed up last night with a big man and they played a game of poker where the priest was just all smiles and innocence, and actin’ as if he ain’t ever played the game before; and then, he goes and wins himself a large hand and walked away from the table with a grin and talkin’ of the Lord providin’.”

 

The town hushed. Raphael could feel their collective heartbeats stagger in disbelief, in horror, in sudden realization that it made sense.

 

It actually made damn sense.

 

“It’s wrong is what it is! What he did to them girls. So we brought him back for justice! He even told Jimmy here if we let him go, he’d let us fuck him.”

 

A scandalized shriek rose up, and then a murmur swirled within the crowd, and Raphael pushed his way through the people, more determined than before to get to the front and to Donatello’s side. He could hardly breathe as the tension in the air grew, nipping at his heels like a coyote after a rabbit.

 

Jimmy pointed over his shoulder, “We saw a dust cloud headin’ east through the Lewellan Pass. Figured we ought ta do our Godly duty and return this criminal, and hope ya’ll can catch the bastards he sold yer women too. If ya’ll ride hard, ya might catch them by mornin’.”

 

“Liar!” Raphael bellowed, another stir rising around him.

 

Jimmy narrowed his eyes, sifting through the crowd slowly till his gaze landed on Raphael.

 

He charged across the open space, his loping march from the fringes of the town folk toward Donnie’s side, spurred him on as the stocky man grabbed the back of Donatello’s collar and yanked his head back, screaming at him.

 

“He’s a sodomite! Heard him ask fer it with my ears!” he spat in Donatello’s face - but the Padre didn’t react.

 

Raphael growled under his breath. He was fairly certain the two men worked for Hun. “No he ain’t!”

 

“I ain’t no fool.” Jimmy pointed back toward their tied horses, and there, sitting up in the saddle, looking small and with a black eye, sat a boy, maybe twelve, in a shirt too large for him and a bit of rope as a belt to hold up his pants. “If’in you ain’t goin’ ta believe me, ask the kid.”

 

He put a hand on his gun, heard the accusations, the disbelief, the outright outrage that this was real; but that didn’t stop Jimmy from punching him in the face. Raphael dropped, head spinning because damn-gummit, he still hurt from last night.

 

His vision focused in, narrowing in on the boy that hobbled toward the crowd. His mouth moved, his face white, his eyes wide and watery. His lip trembled just right. When his hearing returned, Raphael swore.

 

“Some lady told me to run when I got the chance. She said she was a teacher.”

 

Then everything moved too quickly for him to stop it. It would have been like stopping the sun from rising.

 

  
~~~~~*~~~~~

  
 

 

Raphael had seen enough evil in his life to last him eons. But the hatred in the people as they began screaming the moment the boy began crying… he had never felt the air buzz the way it did right then. He pushed against the crowd, yelling wordlessly himself as he fought for his feet, fought for space. His fingers reaching out to grab at Donatello’s arm. His fingers tore through the fabric as he was ripped from his grasp. He was pushed back down, dusty feet shuffled into him, shoving him aside or locking him in place as the crowd roiled around him. They arched over him like a thunderstorm in their haste, and he couldn’t move till they were just gone like the clouds parting and he was up, throwing himself back against their bodies.

 

There were a lot of things in Raphael’s life that he wished he could forget, and there were a lot of things in his life that he wished he could have changed. But this, he bellowed against the tide, raging against the throng of bodies that pushed him away. He caught sight of Casey running out onto the jail house porch, his pale face consumed with eyes wide in horror. He saw the Doc’s stony expression that made him look lost and numb.

 

But they just stood there.

 

“Help him!” Raphael roared and took off, racing after the town’s people as fast as his bad leg would let him. Blood trickled down his thigh. He grabbed for his gun, spinning the cold barrel as he moved, dragging air into his lungs because his heart couldn’t stop pounding and his ears heard a rush like a windstorm all around him, and he just couldn’t damn well breath. He couldn’t breath because they had Donnie and they were screaming at him, and the Padre wailed a heartbreaking cry and it was the worst thing he had ever heard since that day Hun had taken his crying sisters.

 

And he hadn’t been able to stop that either.

 

The crowd moved far to fast, already having dragged him to the edge of town, and Raphael saw a rope being tossed over a thick  branch of the sycamore tree. The leaves trembled, and began to fall as they tugged three times, and the Padre appeared above the crowd.

 

Donatello’s face turned red as he hung there, bound hands clawing at the rope above him, reaching out for the people. A blood vessel popped in his right eye, turning it crimson. Tears ran through the dirt on his face, over bruises and cuts, through blood turned brown with age. His lips moved the entire time, and even Raphael could make out the mouthed prayer to God.

 

“Enough!” He fired a shot into the air, and the mob - for that was the only thing they could be - turned on him like demons, hissing and clawing at his face. He shoved past the crowd, outright punching a man who tried to stop him.

 

“Grab him!” Michaelangelo shouted beside him and he suddenly had the saloon owner and the Sheriff at his side. Mikey cocked his double barrel shotgun and leveled it at the men surrounding Donatello, and they parted quickly.

 

Raphael nearly tripped as he dashed forward through the cleared space, and he felt Mikey right behind him. Raphael’s feet sent up clouds of dust as he slid through the dead grass and dried up earth, and he grabbed Donnie’s legs with shaking hands. He heaved, crying out as he put weight on his leg and he lifted Donnie an inch higher. He heard a faint gasp for air.

 

Casey snatched Raphael’s guns from him and leveled them on the mob with Mikey on one side, and him on the other. Doc LH appeared then like a cloud of white pushing aside the people. He stood taller than the rest, and with a knife in hand, he sawed at the rope, cutting the Padre down. Raphael eased him down, sliding him down along his body because he was not going to let him go, not in this mob. Not ever. They both sank to their knees, no longer able to keep standing as Donnie went boneless and his bad leg gave out.

 

A sputtering sound escaped Donatello as he inhaled a true and deep breath. A wretched yelping hiccuped from him, over and over. He gasped and trembled, clawing at Raphael’s shirt. His face twisted, and in seconds he looked shattered, so utterly destroyed it broke Raphael’s heart. He touched the Padre’s face and he yowled as he pushed him away only to grab at him as if he didn’t know what he wanted or needed.

 

He pulled the Padre close as LH untied his hands and felt along his neck. But the inspection wasn’t welcome because Donnie shook his head and kicked out, trying to back away from them, kicking up clumps of dead grass.

 

“Padre, we got ya.” Raphael hissed into his ear. He stood and dragged the man up with him. Hands on his elbows, he pinned them to his sides and leaned into Donatello’s space, “Donnie!” his throat hurt.

 

The priest jumped at his name, eyes wide and face nearly yellow. Raphael watched his eyes clear, and for a fleeting moment, he saw the priest’s eyes look back at him without the mists of fear in their dark depths. Then, like a winter storm lying as to the end of a blizzard, he broke again and crumbled in on himself and fell to his knees. He hid his face in his hands. Wheezing gasps escaped him as he bowed forward. Huddled in the grass and dirt, he looked as if he weren’t just praying, but pleading.

 

“Come, my friend.” LH whispered, easing his arm around Donatello’s waist, hand on his shoulder as he helped him to his feet. Raphael took Donnie’s opposite elbow, urging him to lean on him. Michelangelo and Casey followed, Casey in back, arms spread and guns level despite how pale he was. Mikey limped along, though his back was straight, head high and gun in both hands, ready and willing, as he parted the crowd with snarled words.

 

Abruptly, Raphael felt another form at his side and he turned, meeting his brother’s eyes. Leo nodded to him and moved sideways, his hands atop his guns, still holstered, because his brother was that much of a fucking show pony. But Raphael’s throat tightened having him there, having him silently tell him he had his back. He glanced across Donnie and past LH and saw Usagi beside the Doc, so calm and looking so proper, like he didn’t see the glares or feel the hands trying to reach past him.  Between the six of them, they effectively boxed the Padre in, protecting him from the good townsfolk.

 

They moved slow, but steady on their way to Donatello’s home, for there was already a small crowd at the hospital, looking ready to fight them tooth and nail against allowing ‘someone like him’ to be patched up with the rest in a proper hospital.

 

Leo and Usagi took watch, one standing guard out front, the other at the rear of the house. Casey locked the door behind them, drawing the curtains and hurrying to lock the door that led out to the smithy.

 

Donatello wilted, seeming to melt the moment he recognized familiar holdings. He lost all power in his legs. He didn’t pass out, but he looked to be floating, lost and unresponsive. Raphael caught him, and Mikey rushed to clear off the dinning table. LH hoisted Donatello atop it and removed his shirt by cutting it away in quick, smooth motions. The Doc tipped the Padre’s head back to check his breathing and bent down to also listen to his heart.

 

“Get me some water.”

 

Casey appeared with a bowl, and Mikey offered several clean rags.

 

The Doc winced as he began cleaning off his face and neck, moving down his body as he washed away grime. The more lays of dirt he removed, the more layers of injuries were discovered beneath.

 

Raphael stood in silence beside the table, staring at Donatello’s face as his eyes blinked, lips parted. He shuddered in a breath now and then, and swallowed with a flinch at the corner of his eyes. Raphael only moved when the Doc asked him too, or when help was needed. He felt butterflies in his stomach take flight as he wiped a tear from the corner of Donnie’s eye. He almost had been lost. He needed this, this fluttering of his pulse against his thumb where he pressed against his throat. The warmth of his skin. Watching the hitch in his breathing as his chest would jump when pulling in an unexpectedly large breath. He had to touch him to confirm he was there.

 

At first Raphael’s fingertips only brushed his knuckles. Then he settled his hand over the other man’s. Then he curled their hands together. He held Donatello’s hot hand in both of his, and he didn’t have the strength to worry about what it meant, because Donatello’s fingers flexed against his palm now and then, and he didn’t want to imagine them sitting cold and lifeless.

 

A knock on the door made the room tense, fingers hovering over triggers. Raphael met LH’s gaze and with a small nod, he glanced down at Donnie’s bruised face before he limped to the door. Hovering on the doorstep, Marshal Bishop tipped his hat back and raised a brow, expectant and haughty.

 

“What do you want?” Raphael said through gritted teeth. He moved further into the doorway, foot angled to stop the door from opening further.

 

“Business of course.” Bishop folded his arms over his chest, chin tipped back.

 

“Like hell.” Raphael wanted to kill him. Where was the Marshal while the town was screaming for blood? Where had he disappeared to when justice was most soundly not being enforced?

 

Leonardo cleared his throat, forcing Raphael to look toward his brother. Leo glanced toward Bishop, his face a stone cold mask, that look in his eye returning, fierce and patient, a killer biding his time. He nodded then, waving toward Bishop dismissively, and Raphael bit his cheek, keeping hold of his tongue for just a moment more, his heart pounding. He did not want this man here, he did not want him anywhere near Donatello. The man was heartless, and that was not what Donnie needed right now.

 

How he knew that, he didn’t know. Leonardo nodded a second time. Exhaling slowly and holding the doorknob a tad too tight, he stepped back and opened the door, letting the man inside.

 

Bishop swept into the room the way a shadow blocked the light. He regarded the group, a brow arched after the silence lapsed into an extended length of tense spitfire like a rattlesnake and mouse watching one another. He took his hat off slowly, the brim held in both hands. “I need to speak with the Father.”

 

Michelangelo shifted forward, blue eyes on fire.

 

“What about?” Raphael interrupted. Hell, if anyone was going to turn this into a mess it might as well be himself.

 

Bishop glanced at the man on the table then back to Raphael, never once losing his stiff and formal posture. “About his time being held by Hun. If he can give us anything, it will help us catch him. His numbers were halved last night - but that is only a guess. The Father could change our luck for the better this time around if he saw or heard anything.”

 

Raphael nodded, but he didn’t have to like it. He fidgeted in place, dragging his feet internally before he marched over to the table and rested his hand on Donnie’s arm. Bending down, he waited as Donnie’s dark eyes shifted towards him, staring back, a little less glassy and a little more dark.

 

“Hey, Padre.” He offered a half smile. “You feelin’ up ta talkin’ with… what did ya call him? Pompadour windbag?”

 

“Pompous ass.” Donatello whispered, his voice rough and cracking.

 

Raphael chuckled, halfhearted, and he nodded, “Yeah, thats it.” He nodded again, the action the only thing he felt capable of. He cleared his throat and shifted, his hand shaking as he pulled it away from Donnie’s arm, only to press his fingers around his. “Do you know what he’s plannin’?”

 

“Going to…St. Louis.” He said, and then his face twisted and he moved for the first time since they locked themselves in. “He has them.” He wheezed, pressing a hand to his throat and he saw the panic rising as his legs kicked out.

 

“Hey now, Padre, calm yourself. Ain’t no need for that. Who?”

 

“April…Amy Lee…Jolynn. Angel, and…and Debbie.” He swallowed hard. “He has little Debbie…”

 

Raphael shot a look at Casey and saw him inhale deeply, squeezing his eyes shut. They had known, but hearing it confirmed didn’t make it easier.

 

The Doc’s large hand stroked over his shoulder, drawing his friend’s eyes, and he nodded, “What else.”

 

“Leaving…now.” He shifted, trying to sit up, but LH shook his head and pushed him back down.

 

Raw terror transformed Donatello’s face and his body tensed. A strangled sound escaped his chest, and he jerked, his limbs flying as he descended, clawing at LH’s hand, breaths wild and gasped. He made that noise again, like a wounded bird, and it broke something in Raphael’s chest to hear the Padre make that sound.

 

“Shit…Padre.” Raphael hissed. “Damnit, calm down.”

 

Donatello wailed. An honest to God wail of pain and fear. He pushed at the hand on his chest till LH removed it. Rolling to his side, he curled in on himself with his knees to his chest and hands over his face - and thats when they both saw it.

 

Chiseled out on one side of his shell, ‘Sodomite’ lay stark and ugly, scarring up his once smooth and unblemished carapace. It was caked in dust and grime obscuring it at first glance, but as the mud flaked away, it gaped like a bloody maw at Raphael. His stomach twisted and nausea washed over him.

 

With the realization that they had cut into him, it was all to easy to see the evidence layered upon him.

 

Raphael felt like they should have noticed the blood first. It was obvious and dark. It lay crusted and matted with dirt atop his clothing. But he also knew they never would have thought it possible.

 

The Doc moved around, his jaws parted before his teeth snapped shut. His wide eyes darted to Raphael’s, and his stomach sank.

 

“Shit….” Raphael turned away from the table, limping, heart pounding. He didn’t want to think it, but the thought already slipped in there like a mouse in the mill. He kicked a chair out of his path. It clattered and banged against the floor till it slid to a stop. He clutched his leg, and felt sick all over again. The same discolored patch of dried blood on his leg - it matched the stain across Donatello’s backside.

 

Marshal Bishop moved to the table, ignoring the Doc, and he bent down, never touching Donatello, but by the way he stared so intently, Raphael knew he was capturing Donnie’s attention. “St. Louis. You’re certain?”

 

“He said…Hun said he was going to leave me here, for the people-” his voice broke and his body heaved. Raphael clutched at his belly. “He was going t…to leave me here… use me as a… distraction. Said he was going to leave right away.” He whispered.

 

The Marshal nodded and stood straight, marching from the room. “Thank you.” He called over his shoulder. “I’ll spread the word for you that they slandered your good name in order to escape with the girls. They threatened you, its obvious.” He said, though whether he was honest or not, the truth never reached his eyes. He stepped outside and back into town, long coat billowing behind him.

 

“I need you all to leave.” LH said, voice hushed. “I need to do an exam on Donatello.”

 

Raphael nodded. The room was too stuffy for him. The smell of fear and blood. The very sight of Donatello, laid up on the table and shaking…

 

His stomach roiled and he lurched for the door, hurrying outside, and out into the fresh air. It helped, but it didn’t stop the dry heaves from retching though him. He gagged, choking on nothing before his body contracted, forcing sour bile to rush past his lips. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he heaved again, but nothing more came up. He spat, hands shaking.

 

He felt hands on his back, rubbing his shell, and he caught a glimpse of his brother standing beside him, tilting his head. “Raph?”

 

“They hurt the Padre.” His voice lurched, husky and weak. “Bad. Real bad.” He said nothing more. But in the place of nausea, he felt an inferno roar within on Donnie’s behalf.

 

He wouldn’t miss next time.

 

  
~~~~~*~~~~~

 

 

  
Leatherhead waited until Casey had stepped out into the backyard with Michelangelo before he turned back to his friend and reached out for him, gentling a hand upon his cheek. “Donatello?”

 

Tears began to well in his eyes. Fresh and shameful ones that LH knew what they meant, but was afraid to confirm.

 

“How badly?”

 

His friend rolled to his belly, arms wrapped about his head. “Nothing. I’m fine.” He said, voice muffled. “Just worried…about the girls.” His voice hitched.

 

Sighing and closing his eyes to steady himself, LH straightened. He had no doubt Donatello was indeed worried about the girls, but he had been a doctor too long to not know when a patient was lying. “I need to examine the damage.”

 

Donatello didn’t move at first, making LH uneasy. He shook his head, shoulders shaking.

 

“Donatello, please.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Hiccuping, he shook his head till he could not shake anymore and gave a small nod against his arms. He inhaled deeply, but even so, he still released a sound, like birds fleeing the moment LH touched his shell. His body tensed and shook, his fingers dug into his flesh, and that sound rushed from him a second time.

 

Leatherhead removed his pants, throwing the bloodied things from him like they burned. Then he took up the basin of water and began washing away the dried blood and grime, exposing flesh that looked just as black and blue, just as raw and beaten, and as ripped and sliced open, as the rest of him.

 

LH had seen many things in his years of being a doctor. Many things he had grown accustomed to seeing and dealing with. Blood no longer made him squeamish, the smells of infected wounds no longer churned his stomach. He had once amputated a man’s gangrened leg with little more than surgical precision - and the wound had released a noxious gas the moment he had broken skin with his saw. He was a professional, nothing sickened him anymore. But the wounds Hun’s men had given him, using him the way they had, LH had to close his eyes and turn away as he removed the splinters and was careful to bathe his dear friend’s ragged skin with gentle fingers.

 

He did what he could, shushing him as he washed him, applied ointments and salves to his torn flesh, and stitched cuts… LH swallowed back bile. Donatello’s swollen and mistreated tail sickened him. It had been stabbed at some point. He did what he could - and wishing he knew of some way to scrub the terrified wail from his mind as he continued to examine his friend completely, both outside and within. In truth, there was very little  that could actually be done. Time would be Don’s greatest healer now.

 

When he was done, he washed the rest of his broken friend. The cascade of water squeezed from the rag, dripping over his body in shy rivulets, gentling the cloth over his welted and bruised arms and legs till he managed to wash what he could of Donatello’s time in captivity away. He carried his friend to his room, helping him stand at his side as he took out baggy clothing and dressed him.

 

He put Donatello to bed, not saying a word as he rolled to his stomach, face hidden in his pillow. He closed his friend’s door, waiting for a time to listen, and when he heard nothing but gasping breaths, he fled the second story back to the kitchen.

 

LH burned Donatello’s clothing. Threw the water and rags out. He washed the table; and if he scrubbed a little too hard, the table would never tell.

 

  
~~~~~*~~~~~

 

 

  
Raphael sat on the bench swing round back, ignoring the gaggle of children giggling and peeking at him, pointing, daring each other to get as close to the barn as possible to throw lumps of dirt and horse shit all over it and the sides of Donnie’s home, before running back to their fellows. He shot one a glare as one kid splattered mud against the side of the barn and the children squealed and ran away. The sun baked him, but he didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to go inside. So he sat there and rocked. Knuckles knotted white.

 

He knew Hun was a bastard. He knew he was a yellow bellied scavenger. It felt like he shouldn’t be surprised that Hun would stoop this low, but it did. It continually shocked him, over and over, to think that man would allow something like this to be done, and to a priest.

 

Leonardo stood beside him, hand on his gun. But his brother hadn’t spoken to him, and it was pissing him off. Maybe that’s what people like him didn’t do. They didn’t sit around, they didn’t sulk. He wanted to scream and rush headlong into a fight with Hun, but his body just physically wouldn’t let him. He could barely walk, let alone ride. He could shoot well enough, but getting close enough to shoot the son-uv-a bitch between the eyes would be hard pressing him at the moment.

 

The door opened abruptly and Raphael struggled to his feet, heart in his throat. Seeing LH sagged his shoulders and Raphael rubbed a hand over his face.

 

“How’s he doin’?”

 

The Doc turned away, hands on his hips, and he wouldn’t meet his eyes.

 

Even Leo looked over at that.

 

Raphael took his hat off and beat it against his good leg, freeing it of dust. He nodded, feeling sick again.

 

“What are you planning, Raph?” His brother asked, gentling his hand on his shoulder.

 

He thought of shrugging him off, of pushing him away. He didn’t though. It didn’t feel right. He rubbed a hand over his hip, wiping his sweaty palm against the rough fabric, and he realized he was choking up. He hadn’t cried like a boy since his Ma was alive. For Donnie, he felt like crying for him.

 

“He’s going to need help.” Doc said, staring out at the mountains. “Not physical - well, not in a few weeks.”

 

“What sort?” Raphael managed to squeeze out, fixing his hat back in place and fidgeting with getting it just right.

 

“Something I can’t give him.”

 

He felt more than saw his brother’s confusion by the way his fingers tensed. “What do you mean? You’re a doctor. You know about these things.”

 

Doc rolled his shoulders, hands in his pockets. “He won’t heal with me around.” He looked at him then, and Raphael stared right back. Challenge blistered in the Doc’s eyes, demanding to know where he stood.

 

He didn’t know yet. Perhaps a part of him, deep down, knew the answer concerning the Padre; but he didn’t know if he could take that step. The damn town made that a hell of a lot clear where they stood on the matter.

 

He only shook his head; he didn’t say anything. So he marched passed the Doc and to the house.

 

“Raphael.” The Doc said, still looking out at the mountains, his broad shoulders dusted gold with the sun’s fading light.

 

Grunting in way of answer, Raphael hovered in the doorway, licking his lips.

 

“Donatello has friends. He has enough of them.”

 

Raphael glanced to the floor, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He saw from the corner of his eye the look Leo shot LH, and he didn’t know why a few short hours could change everything. He was so certain not too long ago, and now, dead butterflies choked his insides.

 

“It’s not a friend he needs. Are you willing to give him that?” The Doc’s voice echoed in his ears, ringing like church bells as he turned away and closed the door.

 

Raphael moved up the stairs, wincing at every other one that creaked and moaned beneath his unhurried steps. He savored the pain each step lanced through his thigh, white hot, gripping, flaring pain and he swallowed it down, using it to clear his mind of distraction. When he got to the bedroom, hand hovering over the doorknob, he still didn’t know what he was going to do. He couldn’t fix anything. He couldn’t snark back with the Padre over nothing. He couldn’t pretend like he wasn’t laying in that bed for no reason.

 

Because this; all of this around him, meant something. This was like sitting in that booth all over again, raw and exposed, seeing the Padre’s fingers reaching for him past the gloom of the grate. This was something real; something so weighty, fresh and spicy; something so delicate and new; something ancient. And whatever happened the moment he opened the door, it would change everything between them - more than it already was.

 

Locking away emotions was never an easy thing for him. As a child he had always worn his heart on his sleeve. He loved too deeply; clung to his family even when fighting with them; he punched a boy in the nose in the middle of his grammar lessons once because some little bastard was teasing his little brother. He had walked home once, covered head to toe in pig muck, holding the very doll he had thrown into the pen in a fit of anger - his little fist white and cheeks red, and he had thrust it out to his baby sister, ignoring her after she took the sodden thing - all because he had felt guilty for making her cry. But after their deaths, he had tried so hard to cut himself off, and anger had been the perfect mask.

 

He could be angry at Hun. He could be angry at the town. Hell, he could be angry at himself. But Donnie, he didn’t know what to feel.

 

He pushed open the door and slipped inside, his eyes sliding over Donatello’s form hidden beneath the blankets. The Padre’s breath hitched at his entrance, and his fingers clutched the mattress.

 

Raphael took his hat off, twisting it about along the rim, his heart pounding hard. The room was so silent, their breathing the only acknowledgment that a hint of the otherworldly was rising up.

 

When Donatello didn’t move, he stepped further inside and closed the door as quiet as he could. Limping to his bedside, hovering at the foot of the bed, his pulse racing. He hesitated, eyes wide at the huddled figure before him. He looked away. He sucked in a lungful of air. Raphael twisted the brim of his hat out of shape. His throat tightened up and it was hard to swallow. He spied Donnie’s desk, a small table in a corner covered with Donnie’s Bible and stacks of papers filled with sermon ideas and observations. He shuffled his feet and redirected his course, dragging the old pine wood chair away from the table, and as silent as possible, he settled it at Donnie’s bedside.

 

Sitting cautiously, Raphael rubbed his palms along his thighs, thinking over what he wanted to say. Lips parting, tongue twitching, he then snapped his mouth shut, and his shoulders shook.

 

It was too much - and he didn’t even know how Donnie felt; let alone if he felt anything close to what he was feeling.

 

‘Too many feelings, damnit.’ He decided.

 

He could never find the right words. He always mucked things up when he tried talking. But this, he could do this at least. He may not be able to go after Hun this time - and Lord knew it pissed him off - but he could at least do this and watch over him.

 

Donatello finally turned his head, looking at him. Raw face, red eye peeking out at him from where his blankets were pulled up around his nose. Pale, tired looking, probably hasn’t had a decent meal, and yet…

 

Raphael swallowed hard. Hell, what was Donnie supposed to eat?

 

He saw his knuckles then, pure white from where he gripped the mattress, his eyes catching the waning light were moisture gathered. Taking in the Padre’s face, Raphael knew what he could do, how to change this so neither pushed the other away without pushing too hard.

 

Reaching for his hand, Raphael pried it up, pressing their palms together by linking thumbs. He leaned forward, elbows on the edge of his bed and he pressed his mouth against their joined hands, holding tight and wrapping his other fingers about Donnie’s wrist. “Sleep, Padre. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not with rattlers outside your door.” He tilted his head, forehead to their knuckles, catching his breath as his own words soaked into his bones. “You’re safe now. I ain’t leavin’ ya.”

 

Slack fingers twitched, tightened, and then Donatello squeezed his eyes shut, and he broke in his palm, shattering like glass that embedded itself under his skin. Body shaking, Donatello remained so quiet, little gasps muffled under the blankets. His pillow turned wet against his cheek.

 

Raphael slid out of the chair, down onto one knee, and leaned over him, as close as he dared. Heart breaking, he held his hand tight, his thumb stroking his pulse. Donnie hiccuped, watery eyes peeking up at him, one red rimmed and darkly bruised, the other red filled, and Raphael didn’t look away. He stared back at him, brows knotted together, and heart pounding. He pressed the man’s knuckles to his cheek, and held on, never letting go even after his Padre fell asleep.

 

And there, on his knees, at his bedside, for the first time in years, Raphael prayed with all his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to leave you all hangin' too long.... ..... too soon? 
> 
> Anyway; I hope this is what everyone was hoping for. And I hope the twist of WHY the town's people did what they did is satisfying not so one sided. I tried So HARD to layer in a bit of foreshadowing in the past chapters to hint at this..... but hindsight is 20/20 and I probably could have done better.... but I hope it works.
> 
> I personally love the ending... but I'm always a sucker for quiet moments when one character has an arc of some sort... no matter how small. 
> 
> I'm working on Ch 15 right now, and hopefully that one will be smooth for me. and for those of you who noticed... yes... I posted how many chapters there are left in this story :) I be comin' upon the end!


End file.
